Hell With You
by thefudge is grumpy
Summary: Takes place after 2x21. Bonnie failed to kill Klaus. Now, he is going to make her life hell for what she tried to do. But hell with him is like no other hell on earth.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: this is what happens when you read klonnie fic._

* * *

 **Chapter 1: life of a fly**

* * *

"I should kill you this instant. Rip that valiant heart out of your chest for all the world to see."

Bonnie blinks once, and shifts ever so slightly in her seat. Her head is still swimming in choppy waters. Her mouth tastes like cotton. Her neck is intact. She does not trust it, though. Her magic is sleepy and she wants to sleep too. But she sticks her chin up in defiance. She even does her best to ignore his words. She can't quite ignore _him_ , though. He no longer looks like her history teacher. He has his own body and the reality of his existence, final and eternal, cements her failure. She had lost, when everything was said and done.

"But you won't," she replies instinctively. She should have said, "you can't", since she has enough power to protect herself from an Original. Whether she has enough power to attack is a different thing…

"No," he smirks, "I won't". Bonnie is startled by the color of his eyes. Rich amber. She is repulsed. Nothing good can come of this. She feels a chill run down her spine.

"What _are_ you going to do with me?" she demands, making sure her voice is low and firm.

"You almost broke my brother and I apart," he replies casually, as if he were talking about the weather.

"Elijah agreed to help us. So, I'd say you two were already broken."

Perhaps this bit of defiance is too much for him. It takes him two strides to stand over her chair and grip her chin painfully between his fingers.

"Careful, witch. I'm not as benevolent as he is."

She pulls her head away, but the mark of his fingers is embedded in her skin.

"No one would make that confusion," she mumbles, looking down at her boots.

She thinks she hears a chuckle, but it's more sinister than merry.

" _You_ certainly won't after I'm done."

Bonnie knows that if she swallows her saliva now, it will be a sign of weakness.

"You didn't answer my question. If you're not going to kill me…what are you going to do?"

Klaus crouches down until they are at eye-level. His expression looks innocent. It would be a mistake to judge it as sincere.

"Oh, Bonnie. I'm going to do the next best thing. I'm going to make you wish I had. Killed you, that is."

Her muscles tense. For the first time, she feels the pain in her wrists. She absurdly hopes that he'll untie her before proceeding to make her miserable.

But no. That's probably part of the suffering.

"So, you're going to make me suffer." Her throat is dry, but still, she doesn't swallow the saliva. She raises her chin, tremulously. "Go ahead. I've had my share of that. I survived before, I'll survive this too."

Klaus tilts his head back. He considers her for a moment with the trained eye of the huntsman. His face could be cut from marble for all its mobility. There is something uncanny about his "beauty". She wouldn't call it that. She doesn't know what to call it. Ruthlessness, maybe.

She is afraid. He can hear the blood rushing in her veins and the mad dance of her heart and she knows he knows. But on a deeper level, she is not afraid. She is resigned, because her life has never been easy-going and this is just another obstacle in the road. True, this one might prove insurmountable, but the Bennetts are famous for trying, if nothing else.

"You are preparing yourself for battle," he says at last, meeting her eyes. "You underestimate me. I have no intention of letting you off easy. My punishment will be…much more subtle. And efficient."

Bonnie feels the rise of her chest. She is probably betraying herself. The truth is, Klaus terrifies her in an entirely foreign way. And she is at pains to understand why. After some moments of silence, something clicks.

He has patience.

He is a thousand years old. Chances are, he will live to see the next thousand. He has probably outlived most of his enemies. Not because he is strong, but because he knew to wait. He is patient.

She suddenly wants to bargain with him. Make a deal. A spell or two in exchange for her freedom? Something she can later wipe from her memory? The patience scares her.

She licks her lips. No, she shouldn't have done that.

Now, Klaus knows he has her.

"Ah, you are not happy at the prospect."

"My friends will notice I'm gone. They'll come after me."

"Will they?" he taunts, pressing the tips of his fingers together.

The room seems vast to her, now that her head is clearing. She can see white sheets draped over furniture. And potted plants which have died unattended.

"Their incentive is rather lacking," he continues, following her eyes around the room. "I gave them a choice. _You_ or _them_."

Bonnie smiles a bitter smile. The disbeliever's smile.

"You think they'll choose themselves."

"Oh, no, love. I think you will."

Bonnie feels like one of her feet has slipped. She is not on solid ground, even though she's sitting down. She wonders if it's day or night. She has no way of knowing. The room has no window to the outside world.

"Say the word, and I will set you free and take Stefan or Elena instead. Maybe even her droll little brother, Jeremy."

Bonnie looks up. Another rookie mistake. He notices.

"You only need ask me," he repeats and his face is serene and satisfied.

Bonnie bites her tongue. "You know I won't."

"Yes. I know."

The life of a fly. That is how long it takes to settle her fate.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: maaan, this gets dark fast, lemme just warn you. Like 'hide your kids' kind of dark. Although you can probably handle it. We're all trash here. Right?_

 _A couple of things: one, since this takes place right after the end of S2, Bonnie is still seventeen, going on eighteen. Two, remember how Klaus and Stefan had that crazy ripper summer together? Yeah, imagine that, but with Bonnie. Basically, he wants to celebrate and hunt and visit old friends and settle old matches. And if he gets to punish Bonnie while he's at it, all the better._

 _Anyway, thank you for your reviews and enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: the blood of the ball**

* * *

The body weighs next to nothing in water. It floats like a feather downstream. And she watches it with as much immobility as her face will allow.

* * *

 _Ten hours earlier_

She pulls back the drapes without expecting to see out into the world. Of course, that is what a window is for, but she doubts that her view will provide the much needed comfort of an open space.

Yet, it _is_ beautiful.

The gleaming domes stretch into infinity, and the sky is a dazzling pink hue that wraps, like ribbons, around the marble arches of her cage.

Somewhere in the distance, she hears the bells toll.

She has never been to Italy. This is her first time.

Who is she kidding? This is her first time out of the country. Europe is a terrifying uncertainty, one which she could have swallowed easier with a graduation tour, a gift from the doting father she never had. A normal life. She wants to laugh, but it turns into a snicker.

If she were here now, Caroline would say, "I don't see the problem. This seems like a sweet deal so far."

Yes, flying first class. Champagne on the plane. She threw it up in the restroom before they landed. He wasn't pleased.

"You really _should_ learn to live more, love. We have come to celebrate."

It hadn't been a piece of advice. Rather, a warning.

 _You'd better do this with a smile on your face. Or else._

She knows what the "or else" contains. A world of horror, whose contours reach all the way to Mystic Falls. He's left half his hybrids there for a reason.

She leans her forehead against the cool glass and thinks how wonderful it would be if she could fly away, across the gleaming domes, into the pink sky.

* * *

She doesn't have to knock at his door. A man in livery opens it for her. His apartments are more opulent, yet the furniture is sparse. There is so much room for him to manifest himself. She doesn't know how else to interpret it. He stands by the window, but the sky is now a muddy shade of blue.

"I hope you've eaten your dinner. You'll need a strong stomach tonight." His cadence is playful, but there is something in it that hints at nonchalant violence.

Bonnie walks into the room on wobbly feet. The heels are too high for her comfort, which might be the point.

Klaus turns to her and his mouth is already coated in red. His eyes inspect her cordially, callously. She sees nothing there. No, that's not quite true. It's not so much absence, as it is infinity. Limitless opportunity. His eyes can do this. She doesn't know how.

"The dress suits you. Pity it shall be ruined," he comments, picking up his own coat jacket.

The fabric bites at her skin with every turn of her body. It's a frilly contraption made of chiffon, the kind she would never wear. She spent half an hour putting it on. She refused the maid's help. Not out of principle, but because everyone is on Klaus' side. _Everyone._

The makeup is heavy on her eyelids, and the beads dangle on her neck like funeral stones. She feels like a swollen wedding cake. If only this were all she would have to bear.

He lifts his elbow and expects her to slip her hand under it, but she pauses a moment, if only to let it sink that she is about to follow him into hell.

He looks dashing, a cruel golden statue with an insatiable lust for life.

She grabs his elbow and shackles herself.

* * *

The mirrors reflect the dancers' steps. Sparkling chains, all anchored by sound and rhythm. When she looks across the floor and catches her own image, she has to look away, for fear that she may not recognize herself. No seventeen year old should be traipsing about in an opera dress. No seventeen year old should be accompanying an older man whose teeth are stained bloody red.

Even the ceiling is a mirror.

She feels like she has stepped into a ridiculous dream, where the fabric of time has been compressed and is waiting to be spooled out. Here she stands, with a glass of wine in her hand, and no one dares question her young presence among them, because Klaus Mikaelson has draped a possessive hand across her waist.

Everything around her is an inverted fantasy. She does not belong.

"Niklaus! I can't believe you made it."

Bonnie casts her eyes upon their host. His features are dark and extravagant, and the ease with which he wears his dandy costume is unnerving. She cannot tell if it is an elaborate mask, or a personal whim. She is entranced by his diamond earrings.

"Severino," the Original acknowledges with a polite nod.

"Every time I forward an invitation, you tell me you're too busy, you old rascal! What was it that convinced you to accept this time?"

"A chance for adventure," he replies, tightening his grip on Bonnie's waist. "I hope we are not too late to the party."

"No, everyone else is simply early," he laughs and points to a group of people at a nearby table. They all smile and nod their heads at the hybrid, like puppets on a string.

"Charming as always," Klaus smirks. "I hear you have prepared me a delicacy."

"Ah, yes, I have seasoned it myself," he winks. "But who is this delightful creature?"

"My witch, of course," he replies, without skipping a beat.

"New one, eh? Quite young, I see."

Bonnie clears her throat. "I'm not..." _his witch_. But instead, "...that young."

"We shall see about that, shan't we?" Severino winks. She is released from Klaus' grip, at last, and made to sit down on a settee, next to frozen, smiling faces that stare at her without restriction. They are curious about her, this girl among heathens.

"You'll follow Severino's instructions," Klaus bids, departing for the dance floor.

Bonnie glances around aimlessly. The young beauties surrounding her look awfully prepared to follow orders too. They seem to await a signal, a spark that will bring them back to life.

"Ah, is this your first time?" Severino inquires kindly. "Let me show you, my dear."

He nudges his fingers at a redhead in a mermaid-green dress. The woman gets up and stands in front of them obediently. Her eyes are cloudy, yet her expression is content.

"Sit down, darling, and place your hand in the witch's lap."

Bonnie is unsure what she is supposed to do, at first, but Severino points at the wrist patiently.

"No respectable vampire sinks his teeth into fresh skin. At least not in public. We are not _animals._ The veins must flow freely for us. You see, we do not open our own bottles of wine. We have waiters for that. And so it goes with blood."

His accent is sweet and melodious, and she could almost believe he means to tell her a funny story. But it is not funny, and not a story. She understands the meaning behind his words. There's nothing anecdotical there.

"Open the veins, little witch."

Bonnie closes her eyes for a moment, and lets the room vanish, along with the mirrors and their shimmering dancers. The sounds she cannot dispel entirely, so she must admit the laughter, the chinking of glass, the heavy breath on her collarbone.

"Are you all right?" Severino asks.

Bonnie reaches for the cutlery on the table. The steak knife feels giant and heavy in her palm, and she clumsily rests its blade on the girl's wrist, expecting an external force to guide her hand.

"No, no, no, silly girl! I told you, we are not animals. Does a waiter open a bottle of wine with his bare hands? Has Niklaus taught you nothing?"

"He hasn't had time," she bites back bitterly. Twenty-four hours ago, she was still in her home town.

"Magic, little witch. It is the endless commodity of our world. The blood tastes pure and unsullied when its source is broken into with raw energy. Mean objects will not do." He takes the knife from her and tosses it back on the table. She wishes she had plunged it into his neck.

But he is watching her intently, waiting for her to make a false step.

Bonnie closes her eyes for a second time, but she no longer tries to make the contours of the room disappear. She gathers energy.

She places her fingers on the steady pulse of the young woman's wrists. She gently applies pressure. The words fall from her lips in a whisper.

It gushes out on her dress like the spray of sea waves. The blood is thick and black. It smells of incense and rust. She understands now why her dress would be ruined.

Severino lifts the woman with much care and leads her by the bloody arm to the Klaus.

The hybrid is already entertaining one of the guests, but the sight of the red offering makes his amber eyes flash with hunger. He steps forward and grabs the woman by the waist, utterly forgetting everything else.

Bonnie almost catches her breath. The woman is pulled into his clutches and cannot hope to escape anymore. She watches as they sway and glide across the dance floor. Klaus kisses every inch of her arm, licking and sucking at the blood with unrestrained carnality. The woman leans into him in complete supplication. He devours without conscience. Yet, he still looks larger than life, preserved in stainless steel. A beast, unleashed only enough to make the heart beat faster.

"Ahem."

Her morbid contemplation is interrupted by a second pair of wrists. They belong to a dark-haired beauty, whose full-lipped smile is as empty as her eyes. Bonnie places trembling fingers on her pulse.

The dark sea spray adorns her dress anew.

Severino watches her with approval.

The third pair of wrists is easier to undo. It almost feels like unwrapping a present, yet whatever is inside is not reserved for her. Her hands feel sticky with congealed blood, but when the fourth pair of wrists offers itself, she cannot say no.

When she looks up, Klaus is turning about the room with a new partner and his nostrils are filled with blood. The woman hangs to him by a thread. Her head is thrown back in agony, or ecstasy. The mirrors reflect the rubies on her skin.

And Bonnie still delivers another pair of wrists.

When he catches her eyes, he smiles a dark, cavernous smile.

Soon, the dancers become a chain of hunter and prey. Severino and Klaus are drinking from the same wrist. The guests are licking their lips. The men and women are opened and open themselves to each other.

* * *

Bonnie can't wipe the tears from her eyes. She has to wash her hands first. She holds them over the railing like dead things, castoffs that she can no longer use. Her nails are black with blood. Thankfully, she hasn't been stained with her own blood. She is the only living thing in the room left intact.

She looks at the splendid moon, governing over the gentle stream below. The balcony is jutting out at an uneven angle. One wrong move, and you could fall to your death.

Oh, it doesn't seem a harrowing prospect right now.

She wonders how much longer they will feed. She wonders when the dance will end.

 _Never. This is my life now._

She is almost tempted, there and then, to sacrifice Mystic Falls for her freedom. Yet, in untenable Bennett fashion, she hopes the second night will be better. Yes, it has to be. This was the first taste. The first taste will always be foul.

His body casts a long shadow. She draws back quickly when he appears beside her.

"Out for some fresh air?" he asks jauntily, running a cruel finger over her bloody palms.

"Please, leave me alone." Her tears haven't dried on her cheeks.

Klaus pinches her chin and jerks her head towards him.

"Now, now. None of these theatricals. Didn't I tell you to live more, love?"

Bonnie bites her tongue, but she can't quite stop the words that come tumbling out of her mouth. "Don't worry. I didn't throw up, this time."

The hybrid grins, enjoying her bitter sting. "Yes, you were quite the butcher. The evidence is smeared all over you. How shall you ever clean it up?"

His hand trails down the front of her dress, crushing the curdled blood. Morsels of red become dust between his thumb and forefinger.

"The world is our oyster, little witch. But our sea...well, it is wine-dark, as Homer once said. I mean to follow that tradition."

He nods his head at the dark undercurrent below. At first, she doesn't notice the body in the shallows of the water. Yet, the color of the dress catches her eye. Mermaid-green. Slowly, a figure emerges in the foamy rapids. Bonnie remembers her wrists.

The body weighs next to nothing in water. It floats like a feather downstream. And she watches it with as much immobility as her face will allow.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: so I did warn you going into this that it's all shades of trash, right? Good, because it only gets worse. Don't let the little 'uns read this._

 _Thanks a lot for your reviews and enjoy the journey!_

* * *

 **Chapter 3: the vital lesson**

* * *

The girl in the mermaid dress haunts her, like so many other beautiful, dead things.

Bonnie has seen the color of her blood, has smelled it on her fingers, and in a way – has almost tasted it, too.

Guilt has a look and a smell and a taste, and it can immerse all of your senses at once, even if you tell yourself you were simply a bystander. In fact, the more you tell yourself that, the deeper you succumb.

That is Klaus' intention. The vital lesson is that it's worse to watch than do. Much worse.

When her fingers accidentally skim the water's surface, she yanks them up and clenches her fist. Half-moon circles are imprinted on her palm. The girl is floating underneath. She is looking up at Bonnie with starless, glassy eyes.

She never knew her name.

Bonnie pulls the mink fur over her shoulders. The touch is sinful, almost. Feathery kisses on her skin. Something she doesn't deserve or want, but cannot go without. The fickle June weather is particularly fickle in the evening. And Klaus has told her he would allow no tawdry coats or jackets on the gondola.

It isn't really a gondola – she wouldn't call it that. It's a cumbersome behemoth, carried on the silent waves by an armada of bare-armed gondoliers. The paddles sink into the black waters like thousands of arms extending into the depths to retrieve a corpse. The girl in the mermaid dress is a slippery fish. She evades their net every single time. Bonnie is grateful.

"Severino has promised to introduce us to the Countess of Montresor tonight. She has a villa in Portofino, supposed to be a marvel. The crypts are particularly fetching, I hear. Vintage bottles of five hundred-year old blood. The very best."

Bonnie keeps her back perfectly straight, even though lounging on the velvet hassock behind her is a constant temptation. But she doesn't want to feel comfortable. It would be easy to grow accustomed to the luxury around her, but every snug corner hides a crown of thorns. Therein lies the genius of this beautiful trap.

"He has to introduce you? Don't you already know everyone there is to know after a thousand years?" she comments scathingly.

"I sense a gloomy disposition again. Portofino should cheer you up. It certainly _must."_ There was no hint of request in his words.

"Do I have to be there?" she asks with the bleakness of a prisoner who already knows his sentence.

"You wouldn't want to disappoint the Countess. She is eager to meet you." His smile predates a vile encounter.

"No, she's not. You're dragging me to these places just because you can."

The hybrid tilts his head back and savors the fresh night breeze. The sky is a violent crimson in the west. It heralds all the ghastly pleasures that lie ahead of him. He has missed this life. He has missed it to the bone. And he intends to get it back.

"Yes. Exactly. Isn't it wonderful?" he replies carelessly. "You are mine to do what I want with."

A sound unlike herself escapes her lips. A snarl of pure anger, but it doesn't go further than that. She sinks her nails inside her fur.

"I can't wait for you to drop dead."

"Me?" he echoes airily, although his eyes are made of molten steel. "When I am offering you such glories your mundane existence would never have dreamed of?"

"You know how much I hate this stupid fur and this stupid dress and stupid Venice –"

Klaus laughs a buoyant laugh. "Stupid Venice! Monteverdi would crucify you for that."

"I don't know who that is and I don't care."

"Ah, we should go see _L'incoronazione di Poppea_. A lovely tale of two ruthless lovers who triumph over the forces of good. Have you ever been to the opera?"

"You know I haven't. And you know I'll hate it."

The hybrid lifts a glass of champagne to his lips. "Yes. You seem to be gawking at the art and architecture around you out of pure _hatred_. Why, I suppose those appreciate glances are only a clever disguise. Deep down, you absolutely abhor spending your summer in Italy."

Bonnie's hand darts out of the mink fur. She wants to scratch and burn his face, until there's nothing left of it, but she only interlaces her fingers and smiles a cutting smile.

"Don't get me wrong, _Klaus_. I can like all those things fine. But I don't, because I'm with you. So I hate them."

Her hateful companion only chuckles at her insolence, but she can see his patience wearing thin. _Good_.

"And how long do you think your hostility will last?"

"As long as you're alive," she mutters contemptuously, kicking at a gilded lantern with her foot.

"And after I'm dead?" he questions glibly.

Bonnie's eyes widen at the unexpected turn in the conversation. "What?"

"What will you do with your hatred after I'm dead?"

"I – "

She is stumped by this felicitous possibility. The hybrid has been everyone's constant obsession for the better part of a year. She cannot think of an alternative anymore.

Klaus' wolfish grin is fiendish and victorious.

"You see, love? You can't even _picture_ me dead."

Bonnie buries the scream of frustration somewhere in her chest, but she can feel sharp talons tearing at the skin, begging to let it out.

"You're right," she musters after a while. "I can't picture you dead. But I can kill you. And then I'll be able to picture it just _fine_."

His jaw clenches for a moment, and he leans forward, as if to grab her. Bonnie is ready. She cannot wait to be free of this charade and sink her magic into him until he is begging for mercy. But he only buttons his topcoat and sets the glass down. He smiles and lets his arms drop, as if inviting her to try.

"Pity you cannot indulge in your blood thirst. Here I am, ripe for the taking, yet you cannot lift a finger."

Bonnie's breath comes out hard and fast.

"Oh, how you enjoyed it when you almost killed me. When you _almost_ had my life in the palm of your hand. You were so ashamed, afterwards, weren't you? A good witch like you is not supposed to feed on death. But how hungry you are still."

She can't help the shivers that run down her spine.

"And what _anguish_ you must feel that you cannot quench your thirst. Like me."

Bonnie grips the sideboard with trembling hands.

"But you _could_ ," he taunts, winking at her. "All you have to do is relinquish your friends and family."

She shakes her head and looks away, aghast. She feels it in her bones, the need to let go and strike. She wants to hurt him so badly, she feels sick to her stomach. But this is what he wants. She has to remember that.

She grabs the nearest thing she can reach. A gold-thread coverlet. She throws it into the water with famished violence.

She cannot destroy him. She will destroy everything else.

She rips the cushions into shreds and flings them into the water. She hurls the tray and the glasses and the bottle of champagne – all into the green void.

Halfway through, she realizes she isn't using her hands. The magic rips through the boat and shatters and splinters everything in its path. She sees precious cargo go afloat, jewels and furs and books and bottles of wine. She gives everything to the girl in the mermaid dress. The gondoliers never stop rowing. And Klaus simply watches her. He does not bother to move out of his seat. As if nothing could possibly thwart their journey.

She is dizzy and feverish with magic, a feeling similar to being drunk, except this poison is much more intoxicating than alcohol. She knows that magic is just as addictive as blood. And she hates that she has reached this conclusion by herself. All she ever wanted was to do the right thing. But if the right thing is killing and destroying her enemy – what does that make her?

The last thing she throws is her mink fur.

Bare-shouldered and aflame, she drops down in her seat and tilts her head back in resignation. Maybe she is horrible for wanting to kill him in cold blood, but she can live with this. She can live with this and return to her loved ones. Whereas he will be loveless and alone forever and she _hopes_ that this will cut him far worse than what he is doing to her now.

When the tumult of her heart finally settles into a constant rhythm, she finally hears the music.

The gondola is passing in front of a concert hall. The doors have been thrown open and the crowd is spilling out on the cobble-stoned terrace. The flute notes stream into her ear like warm honey.

She twists her head and stares at the throngs of listeners standing on the bank. Their uniform backs sway in time with the music. No one looks their way. Not even a remote glance. As if one single glimpse would turn them to stone.

Bonnie massages her neck with a sigh. She looks up at the night sky. The crimson red is almost gone. The violins soar somewhere in the background. She understands why the people sway. You can't help but go where the music tells you.

Yet, the moment is desolate. Because no one knows where she is. No one can find her. No one can look. She is invisible.

No.

He is watching her.

Bonnie has never seen that look in his eyes. He is transported by the music, but his eyes are fastened to the arch of her neck, where her fingers are resting idly. There is a night in his visage that has nothing to do with the falling darkness around them.

"Offenbach. What a felicitous coincidence," he murmurs and removes his eyes from her body.

Bonnie opens her mouth, but he silences her with a raised finger.

"Don't waste your breath telling me you hate it, little witch. We have come here to celebrate. And that's what we'll _do."_

He is too fast for her reflexes and he grips her arm before she can yank it away.

"And _after_ we are done celebrating my victorious return to power, I shall let you go your merry away again. _If_ you can live with yourself, that is."

His smile is venomous and ugly. "But I have a feeling you won't."

* * *

The gondola slows down at the foot of a dingy-looking hotel. Bonnie sees the cracks in the plaster, the overgrown ferns jutting out of the fissures. A mother and her young daughter stand over the wrought-iron balcony. The woman dotes on her little girl. She kisses her cheek and points at the spires that stand guard in the night sky over Venice. Bonnie can't hear what they are saying, but she's sure the mother must be telling her some sweet bed-time story.

She wants to be up there with them and feel the warmth of their embrace.

Klaus knocks on the wood twice and the gondola stops completely.

"Now, shall we have some dinner?"

Bonnie watches the little girl sneak one hand through the wrought-iron bars to wave at them.

"Klaus, no –"

The hybrid looks up tenderly at his new prey.

"Mia piccola cara, perché non ti unisci a noi ?" ( _My dear little one, why don't you join us?_ )

The little girl nods her head and sneaks another hand through the bars. Bonnie stifles a gasp. She is certain the mother will stop this at once. She will grab her child and run back inside the room.

But the woman whistles down at Klaus and brushes her skirt with an impatient gesture.

"Took you long enough."

Her accent is broken and unyielding, but there is no doubt she knows her master. She pushes the little girl through the bars.

Bonnie shrieks once and raises her arms in horror.

The little girl's fall is tempered at the last moment. She hovers in the air, between the water and the sky. Bonnie's magic is wrapped around her tiny body.

"She is already dead, love."

Bonnie snaps her head in his direction. "What?"

"The mother injected her with poison before we arrived."

"No –"

"A popular dessert around these parts. This particular elixir makes the blood…more potent. Some have described it as a little piece of heaven. You recall what Severino promised me, don't you?"

Shockingly, she remembers. Despite the panic running through her veins, she remembers. _A delicacy._

"Please," she starts in a trembling voice. She doesn't know why she is pleading with him. When she looks up, the little girl's head is no longer where it should be. It hangs at an odd angle.

"Cast her in the canal, then. I will find another," he replies, shrugging his shoulders.

Bonnie shakes her head desperately. No. She will not give these waters another offering. She lowers the frail body into the gondola.

Klaus cradles the tiny corpse in his arms. Her cheeks are still pink with life. He caresses them with despicable tenderness and kisses the top of her head.

"Are you going to watch, love?"

Bonnie does. She does.

She can't look away.

The vital lesson is that it's worse to watch than do. Much worse.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: and the (much delayed) trash festival of the senses continues! Thank you so much for all your thirsty reviews (lookin' at you bluemagicrose, hi5's you for that kick-ass Wire reference & also TinyCurmudgeon, if that's Rick Sanchez on your avatar, hi5's you too). Enjoy the descent!_

 _And as trash sis Nat would say, #livingourtruth2k16._

* * *

 **Chapter 4: vaults of human lives**

* * *

She's never liked writing. It felt like a chore in school. The dreaded "Summer Holidays" essay always gave her headaches.

Yet, a strange ache makes her sit down at the rosewood escritoire. She wants to communicate, she wants to throw a bridge across the sea to _someone_. She is writing a letter. The paper is stark against the red splits in the rosewood The blue enamel inlays remind her of peacocks. They are probably three centuries older than her.

 _Dear Caroline,_

 _I know it's been a long time._

She scratches the line impatiently. What a sorry beginning. She tries again.

 _I'm still alive._

Yes, that much is true, but she's surrounded by death daily. And that's not really living. She scratches that line as well.

 _I miss you._

This is honest. She can leave this here.

 _I'm in Portofino right now. It's pretty, I think. I haven't seen it that well. I sit inside all day._

Bonnie knows this is the wrong tone. She sounds like she's regaling her with details of some innocuous trip across Europe.

 _I'm still a prisoner. I have to do what Klaus says, for now. He makes me do -_

What can she say that won't horrify her friend?

She stares at the golden filigrees winding around the cap of her pen. It's not her pen. It was there on the escritoire, waiting for her. Another centuries-old relic, no doubt. Did Klaus put it there for her?

Suddenly, she writes everything in a rush.

 _He killed a child. She was dying, but he killed her. I watched him drink from her to the last drop. I slept fine afterwards. I thought I'd stay awake and cry, but I was exhausted and I had a good rest. I think I hate myself, I don't know. How do you know? I still live with myself, I still eat and sleep and function. I tell myself it wasn't my fault. But I stood there and watched and afterwards I felt nothing. I should have felt __something_ _. I should take responsibility for it. It's what I do. But I don't think I will._

She stops finally, because her muscles hurt. She's clenched the pen so tight she has red marks on her knuckles. She looks at the sharp tip, dripping with ink. She could jab it into Klaus' throat and sink it deep enough to hear him scream. It's something she dreams about sometimes; hurting him. It's a pointless fantasy, which makes it all the more tempting.

 _He's evil_ , she continues, enjoying the easy strokes on the creamy page and the soft pain in her knuckles _. I thought he was just a jerk with family issues. We've dealt with those before. He's not. He's hateful and ruthless, and I can't explain it. He's not your regular bad guy, if that makes sense. Remember when we talked about_ _Othello_ _in ninth grade? How we couldn't make out why Iago kept doing all those horrible things? He just…did them. His motivations were never clear. I think there was something about Othello's post. He'd wanted Othello's title, maybe. But you'd have to be a little insane to do all that for…for what? What did he_ _want_ _? I don't know. That's Klaus. I don't know._

She feels tired already, almost as if the pen were feeding off her blood. Bonnie crumples the piece of paper. She sounds phony to her ears. That's the problem with writing; nothing is ever expressed as it _is_. It's always a 'might be'. The uncertainty despairs her.

Caroline will never read these words anyway. These are her precious free moments. And she's still spending them on Klaus.

She goes to the fireplace and tosses the paper inside, waiting for the flames to curl and twist it into mean shapes.

She hates this stately chamber with the stupid rosewood escritoire, the fireplace decked with winged chariots and wounded gods - some garish scene from a Roman play - and the window frames that hang heavy with gold laurels. They seem, in the middle of the night, to melt on the carpet and turn into a river of coins.

Another lavish dollhouse, a little bit more eccentric because it belongs to the Countess of Montresor. She has been sequestered in this Villa for over a week now. She's only seen Portofino by night. By day, she is locked in here. She is given leave to walk through the giant chateau, but she chooses not to.

The Countess is old, ugly and rapacious. The first night, she kept Bonnie at her side and stroked her hand until her skin turned paper-thin. She whispered in her ear that she was a "beautiful little creole", and wondered whether drinking her blood might give her back her much desired youth. She laughed in good humor when she saw Bonnie's terror-struck expression.

"But why _did_ you age? Vampires are supposed to be eternally young," Bonnie asked, without tact.

The explanation was simple. Bonnie managed to grasp, from a mixture of French, Italian and English, that the Countess had been turned into a vampire by an ungrateful "rascal" when she was already old of age. Hence, her "monstrous" condition. Not monstrous because she kept human blood in her crypts, but because her wrinkled, mottled skin no longer matched the strong, immortal body.

"Who was it that turned you?" Bonnie pressed on, feeling, against her better judgement, some degree of pity for the Countess.

"You would not know him. He goes by Lucien. A veritable _brat_. He would not even make love to me afterwards. He turned me into a glorious being and cast me aside. Even called me _une pauvre grosse vache_. I cried for days," she moaned, clutching at her thousand pearl necklaces like a prisoner to his chains.

Bonnie remembers that night with a vague sense of disgust.

Despite her propensity for tragedy, the Countess is very hard to like. She is like dreaded seaweed, clinging to you passionately, in the hope that you will love her. She keeps a steady watch on Bonnie and makes sure to invite her to all her tea parties. She wants you to look at her, listen to her, fawn over her. And she laughs when you do. Bonnie is reminded of an old woman from a book, an old woman who was always dressed in a tattered wedding dress, with cobwebs in her hair. In that novel, the woman died in flames. Just like a vampire should.

Bonnie can't refuse all her invitations, but sometimes, she pretends to have a headache.

Sometimes, it's no pretend.

By day, she flounders in her room, but she also sleeps. She stocks up on much needed rest, because the evenings are an endless riot. The evenings are filled with Klaus.

By night, he is there, in the center of the ballroom, waiting for her.

 _And that's just it_ , she would write to Caroline, if she hadn't already burned the paper, _He waits. He doesn't do anything else. He hasn't harmed me. He hasn't bitten me, either. He just wants me to sit and watch. And he knows that's worse. And he knows I know._

* * *

The ballroom floor is too slick with blood; the Countess is forced to move the party on the terrace. Bonnie slips away unseen.

Finally, one night she can spend sleeping.

She locks her door and crawls into bed. But sleep evades her, because she has unlearned how to close her eyes and dream. She dreads the morning, she dreads the night after, and the other nights to come. When will it end?

Summer can't last forever. The real world is still out there. She believes in places where there are no gowns, no escritoires, no charted veins. She has faith she will return to that world.

But when? When will she kill Klaus?

She is watching the golden laurels. They will start to melt very soon and she will see that sickly color drip on the floor. She can taste the bile in her mouth.

When the shadow comes, she thinks it's only her addled mind, the little screws that refuse to stand still and let her rest. She turns her head away, almost like a child, running away from her nightmares. There is a weight on the bed now, and it's not hers.

She dreads, for a moment, that the Countess has decided to visit her in her own chamber. She holds all the keys to the Villa. Bonnie expects to hear the rattle of her thin voice, but instead, she sees laurels. His stubble is polished gold. He is sitting in a curious position; head bent forward, elbows on knees, as if he were in deep thought. Bonnie watches him surreptitiously and holds her breath.

Yet again, Klaus is not doing anything. He is waiting. He probably knows she is watching. Hybrids have sharpened senses, so they say.

What is he waiting for?

Does he want her to simply stew in her own skin, go slowly mad from his presence?

If she moved her feet under the duvet she could very well touch him. It's awful to sit so still.

"Did you think I wouldn't notice you left?"

His tone is light, but his weight shifts on the bed and suddenly, his hand comes down on her ankles and grips them through the covers.

Bonnie does not kick or pull away. She is not sure what that would accomplish.

"I was tired."

"And? Did I give you permission to leave?"

"…no."

"So?"

"So I left anyway."

"Have I not made it clear that you're mine now?"

Bonnie bristles at the words. He can come into her room and scare her awake and even talk in riddles, but he can't say _that_.

"I go to your stupid parties every night. I sit there and watch you do whatever crap you like. I deserve to take a break. But don't _worry_ , I'll be there tomorrow night."

She thinks she hears a chuckle, but she is distracted by the way he is grazing the skin of her ankles.

"You don't make the rules, love."

"Neither do you," she spits without thinking.

"Oh?"

She can't turn back now. "You're just wandering around Europe, crashing with whatever rich vampire will let you stay."

"Are you calling me a beggar?" he asks, a little incredulous.

"If the shoe fits," she answers stupidly.

"Careful. You know I find your insolence charming, but patience is not my virtue."

"Then let me go home and I won't be testing your patience anymore."

Suddenly, he is dragging her by the ankles. He is pulling her down among the sheets. She yelps when half her body slides off the bed. Her head is now level with his lap. He tips her chin up.

"I told you I will. When I am finished with you. Do you think we are done?"

Bonnie can see the pen lying still on the escritoire behind him. She calls to it. If only she could wield it. She can see the vein pulsing at the base of his neck. A quick, precise stab is all it takes.

He notices her lingering looks. He turns to the escritoire.

"Did you like the pen?"

She doesn't think about it. She slides out of his grasp and lands on the floor with an inelegant thud. From there to the door – only a few measured steps. She dashes blindly in her camisole. The carpet is quicksand. Her feet are too clumsy. And of course, he's at the door before she even blinks.

"Now, now. Haven't we already exhausted this game?"

"I just want to sleep," she mouths, covering her shoulders self-consciously.

"Then why are you running towards the door?"

"I want to sleep _alone_."

"So you shall. But not now. Now you will put on your best gown and come back downstairs. _I_ say when you come and go. Is that understood?"

Bonnie shifts tiredly on her feet. The "yes" is on the tip of her tongue. She should just say it and be done with it.

Instead, she lifts her eyebrows and the door behind him opens with a strong gust of wind.

Klaus falters. His lips part in surprise. Her magic is inviting him _out_.

She does not dare say a word, but her magic speaks for her.

 _I tell you when you come and go._

He recovers quickly, and smiles a sinister little smile.

"Very well. Sweet dreams." They don't sound sweet. They sound like, _you will pay for this_.

* * *

There are nightmares, nightmares everywhere.

She comes across the bath house during one of her rare walks around the Villa.

Steam and sweet scents mask the reality for precious moments, but nothing can conceal that rotten feeling of stepping on blood. She feels them under her thin slippers, hard, pulpy globs.

She wants to get out, but it's too late.

The Countess beckons to her. She wants to talk.

The pool is overflowing with viscous red. There are tall windows everywhere, and natural sunlight turns the red into a dubious orange. Bonnie sees the mountains in the distance. Spruce and pine and no drop of snow. She can taste an elementary freedom, something pure and good outside these glass walls.

The Countess' naked flesh sags like sacks of flour, but her breasts are still ripe and they almost look young, dipped in blood.

"Tell me about your home. Your town. America is such a quaint little place. _C'est la périphérie du monde."_

 _Mystic Falls_. A joke name. You'll find it on a map, but it has no place here. The common world is out there, somewhere, but she, the most mundane and wholesome of all witches, ended up in this other-world somehow.

"It's...small. But friendly. Everyone knows everyone," she offers awkwardly, careful not to step into the blood again.

"Oooh, they are all, how do you say it, _badineurs?_ They gossip?"

"Some. I don't mind it." _I want to go back. Please let me go back._

"Ah, _bon,_ you must be glad to have escaped, no? A pretty girl like you."

"I miss it."

"Nonsense. Look around you. Miss nothing, _ma petite_. Do not even miss this. For this moment too...will vanish." She sinks into the blood until her head disappears.

* * *

The Countess sends her down into the crypts for "wine". Each bottle contains untainted human blood, preserved and spiced with nutmeg and cinnamon...and something else. The full recipe is meant to be a secret, passed down by silent tongues.

"My collection never goes sour," the Countess likes to boast, clutching at her pearls.

The crypts are several feet underground. She has to climb down hundreds of tiny stone steps, slippery if you're not careful. She is. The spiral staircase takes her slowly into the bowels of the earth.

She is not afraid, because everything is bathed in light. The lanterns show her the path.

Perhaps she is a little afraid, but it's much better than being above ground, where the ballroom is teeming with human victuals.

She steadies herself against an archway when she reaches the last step. The crypt might be larger than a small village. It certainly goes as far as the eye can reach.

 _So much blood._

The stacks and caskets chained to the wall look like beehives. Vaults of human lives.

This carved forest is archaic and out of bounds, she knows. She's only counted eighteen years of life. She shouldn't be here, she shouldn't even breathe this air.

She could set it all aflame. She could watch it burn. The Countess' collection would go up in smoke.

She relishes the thought for a moment, before she pushes it away. What would that accomplish? The Countess would only get a new supply, making new victims.

Bonnie steps down and reaches for the first stack on the wall. She takes out a bottle hesitantly. She has to blow away the dust. Her nose tickles.

She reads the cursive writing on the label. _Sang-Froid, 1579._

She can't think so far back. What might've happened in 1579? How could someone's blood be kept intact for such a long time?

She could uncork it and find out.

 _That's disgusting_ , she thinks with a shudder. She is not just repulsed, she is cold. She's slipped a jacket over the bare-back dress, but it hardly helps to abate the steam coming out of her mouth. She stares at the bottle. Maybe if she just found out what it smelled like…

There's a bottle-opener right there on the glass table. The lantern overhead swings on a midnight draft.

She presses her thumb down as the screw pulls out the cork. The bottle jitters and a small drop lands on her finger.

She doesn't think about it; she hardly does these days.

She puts the thumb in her mouth.

Bonnie feels like retching at first, but the taste on her tongue is sweet and coppery and arcane. It reminds her of those old Grimoires in Sheila's library. She's always loved their smell. But their _taste_ is so rich. It's like she's filling her mouth with their pages and she's soaking up the runes and the spells.

She brings the bottle to her mouth.

 _Ooh._

It's like drinking _night_.

Her head tilts back against her will. Her body is trembling. She chokes on blood. The liquid dribbles down her chin, but she can't seem to be able to stop.

The room spins wildly. She is floating on air. Her hands can reach the ceiling. Her dress un-flowers, as each fold is a petal, and each petal turns to ash. She can feel a hand going into her very flesh, squeezing her heart shut. The bottle head is a pair of hungry lips, the blood is kissing her. She flies, she flies, she flies...

She lands back on the ground abruptly. Someone is clearing their throat.

Bonnie sputters blood as the bottle crashes to the floor.

Klaus is leaning against the archway.

"Well, you've made quite a mess."

His eyes are afire with something bold and hateful. He seems pleased…only, he seems hungry too.

He steps forward.

"I'd offer you a handkerchief, but I don't carry such things around. I never wipe the blood."

Bonnie knows how she must look. Her mouth is dripping with blood and her throat is red.

"I…"

"You must be a lightweight. Drunk on blood already?"

"I didn't mean to."

"Who can resist the Countess' caskets? I certainly can't."

He walks her into a small recess. His shoes give a sickly crunch as he steps over glass. He is staring at the blood she's feasted on.

"I have a task for you, little witch. Bring your mighty pen."

She blinks.

"My _pen?"_

Absurdly, she thinks he will let her stab him. Her eyes fall to the pulsing vein on his neck.

"Such dark cravings," he teases, knowing exactly what she's thinking. "My witch drinks blood and wants to kill. I may satisfy the need."

She furrows her brows.

"But first…" he trails off. His thumb ghosts over her mouth. He presses it down hard and wipes her lips. The red is almost black. He tastes it on his tongue, never once lowering his eyes.

"First, fetch that pen."


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: soooo, who is in the mood for the trashiest chapter yet? No honestly, writing this one was a spiritual experience, lemme tell you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I did!_

 _Thanks to all of you who dropped by and released your inner hoe in the reviews, I promise this chapter will go on in the same tradition. Lemme know how you liked it!_

* * *

 **Chapter 5: foul ecstasy**

* * *

Bonnie frowns at her reflection in the mirrored hall. She's rubbed at her mouth until her lips became raw but she still sees the blood. It must be the effect of the dress too. She is wearing a corseted contraption that cuts off her breath at every turn, but it's the only red dress in her repertoire. Klaus has specified it should be red. She doesn't like the way it hugs her breasts. They seem to hang like quinces under her chin. But she can't say it's not a beautiful gown; a hundred veils float in her wake, a trail of bloody red.

She still feels drunk on Sang-Froid, because objects and people have acquired a new, lopsided contour. Straight angles have bent into spheres and the ceiling is winking at her. Ever so often she feels as if someone has turned up the volume, or slowed down the passage of time. She has to be careful where her foot falls. But she's secured the pen in her small purse.

Klaus waits for her at the paneled doors. He wears his tailcoat with visible discomfort, but in due fashion, his cravat is crooked. She is slightly surprised that he's made an effort, but he doesn't offer an explanation until they enter the sparsely populated ballroom. He finally confides, placing her hand around his elbow, that it's the Countess' birthday.

"A private party. She's only invited a select few."

Bonnie blinks. "Is that why she made me fetch the wine?"

"It's not the only thing she will have you fetch tonight," he warns with a pert smile.

"Sometimes I can't tell if she hates me or likes me," she mutters wanly, already counting down the minutes until she can go back to her room. Knowing the Countess, however, this small festivity is bound to be a chore. "How old is she turning anyway?"

"Five-hundred and seventy. But she will cut your tongue if you so much as allude to it," he informs her as they pass underneath a glimmering chandelier. "She likes to stick with her human age. Eighty-six."

"That's not much better."

Klaus sneaks a glance at her. His eyebrow is raised in amusement. "Youth is so cruel."

Bonnie ignores his remark and focuses on keeping her head clear. The "wine" is still working through her system. She might say or do the wrong thing, and she'd much rather _not_.

They stop in front of a small podium set at one end of the ballroom. A lion-footed throne is perched precariously on its velvet surface. The Countess is accepting kisses and the customary birthday presents like a queen at court. The band is playing a bizarre rendition of Happy Birthday. It sounds more like a funeral dirge. But perhaps that is her heightened imagination.

Bonnie pinches Klaus' arm. "We don't have a gift."

"Of course we do."

" _I'm_ not a gift, Klaus," she grits between her teeth.

He scoffs in disbelief. "You disappoint me. I don't make a habit of giving away what's mine."

That hateful word again. _Mine_. She clicks her heel into his foot, but he only smiles a dimpled smile.

"Ma petite créole, viens ici," the Countess calls impatiently when she spots her in the crowd at the bottom.

Klaus puts a hand on the small of her back and pushes her forward.

"I can walk," she snaps, but her legs are jittery. She climbs up to the Countess' throne, holding the hem of her dress in both hands.

"Kiss my cheeks, chérie."

Bonnie complies reluctantly and presses her lips to the pocketed, powdered skin.

"And now my present, if you please."

Bonnie is stumped. She wonders if she's supposed to give her the pen. Fortunately, or perhaps, unfortunately, Klaus comes up behind her to settle the matter.

"She only waits for you to choose the victim, your ladyship."

Bonnie whips her head around. "What?"

The Countess claps her hands excitedly. "Well, well, I think I'll take the minister's wife, the one in blue. No, no, perhaps the gentleman with the whiskers. Ah, wait, he is the private owner of an exquisite chain of boulangeries. Hmm, oh, I know! That old crone in yellow. She's had her nose turned up all evening."

Bonnie follows the Countess' bony finger to a chair by the wall where a woman in her late forties is sipping champagne wearily.

"Niklaus, be a dear."

In a flash, Klaus is gone and returned with the woman whose champagne glass has spilled all over her dress. She looks startled, but not particularly frightened. Almost as if she were resigned to her fate. Bonnie can sense that she is also human. One of the few left at this party.

"Klaus, what's going on?" Bonnie asks, stepping away from the throne.

"Your present to the Countess. She's asked for you to perform the first killing of the night."

Her mouth opens and closes stupidly. It must be the blood she's ingested, making her hear things. The room is spinning.

"Yes, my little creole, I have never seen you kill. Niklaus says you are quite the talent."

Bonnie stares hard at her captor, demanding an explanation. He shrugs amicably and speaks into her shoulder quietly, "You really thought you could disobey me without consequences?"

"I haven't -"

But yes, she has. She remembers now, the night she cast him out of her room, the night she refused to come down with him. She slept well.

Bonnie turns away from him in distress.

"You will have to forgive me, your ladyship, but I can't... perform tonight," she entreats, but the elder vampire purses her lips.

"I only turn eighty-six _once,_ you know _._ I have been generous enough and welcomed you in my home. The least you can do is kill her."

Bonnie can't believe her ears. The hag is insane. "I won't. And you turn eighty-six _every_ year."

"Well!" the Countess cries, affronted.

"My witch is merely jesting. She will surely change her mind. After all, she has no _other_ choice," Klaus reminds her, eyes sparking with mischief. But there is an all too tangible threat behind them. Bonnie looks around disoriented, hoping someone in this room will come up and put a stop to this madness. But the crowd, though small, has ganged up on her, watching her intently. Half of them are ancient vampires. None of them are going to intervene. And the hybrid is breathing down her neck.

"I can - I can render her unconscious," she offers, voice caught in her throat.

"Pah, I can do that myself in a blink," the Countess replies petulantly. "Now, will you give me my present or must I take exception with you?"

Bonnie knows a spell that could stop the poor woman's pulse for a while without killing her. Her Grams used to call it the Juliet spell, jokingly. She is about to agree, when Klaus puts a hand on her arm.

"Bonnie, the pen?"

"What?"

"Her ladyship does not like magic tricks. She would like you to do it with your bare hands."

"It's true," the Countess verifies. "Magic is all well and good, but I'm a country girl myself. Always liked the smell of fresh blood."

Bonnie gags. She is quite suddenly sobered. The "wine" has flushed out of her system and she can see clearly what is in front of her. She must escape, at all costs.

"No," she whispers.

"Yes," Klaus insists, opening her purse and fetching the pen for her. "You were so eager to use it. Here's your chance."

Bonnie breathes in and out quickly. She's trapped on all sides by vampires and brainwashed humans. She's doomed. But she knew that from the start, didn't she?

The only thing to do now...the only choice she has...

She looks up at the Countess, smiling placidly like a giant frog on her extravagant throne.

Bonnie lowers her eyes and uncaps the pen. She approaches her luckless victim, who is watching her disinterestedly, her mind already far gone. Bonnie hopes she is contemplating better things.

"Here, you should sit, it will - it will be better this way," she says, forcing the woman down gently at the foot of the throne.

The Countess stretches her neck forward gleefully, no doubt preparing for a gruesome show.

Bonnie's got only one clean shot. The magic can give her precision. Grams has taught her that too.

She runs up before anyone can stop her.

And plants the pen into the Countess' heart.

* * *

She has to get out of this damn dress, there's too much of the Countess on her skin.

Klaus was right to have her wear red, for once.

She can still see him, under the chandelier light, ripping out two hearts at once.

There was a general silence after the Countess shriveled and died. It was so quick, no one had time to protest. But once they realized their patron was well and truly gone, they came for her. Klaus had to remove a few heads. It wasn't a metaphor. She could still hear the whiskered man's head rolling across the floor like a bowling ball. The guests scattered quickly afterwards.

The house is now frighteningly empty.

But for how long? They will return with fresh forces, she is certain.

Her fingers tremble as she begins to untie her corset. Where will she go from here? What will happen next? Her mind is on auto-pilot. She refuses to think on what she's done. She's only contemplating the grim future. Or lack thereof.

They'll have to leave at once, and after that -

"Let me help you with that," he snarls.

She should not be surprised he's come into the room, but her knees grow weak when his fingers slash through her corset, breaking the stays as if they were nothing more than butterfly wings. With a violent rip, the bodice crumbles and his mean hands land on her shoulder blades.

Bonnie holds the tattered garment to her chest, panting heavily. One of his hands sinks into her hair. He pulls her back against his chest. Her scalp is burning.

"Did I not enunciate properly? Or did you miss the part where I told you to kill the _human_?"

She can't afford to show emotion, else she might dissolve entirely. She's pressed up so close to him, she's certain he can hear her rapid heartbeats, can smell her fear. But she will _not_ let the burden of her misdeed overwhelm her. Not in front of him.

She turns her chin towards the hybrid and catches his eyes briefly.

" _Oops_ ," she mouths, bravely, madly. She's past the point of caring. She's killed with bare hands.

Klaus' expression turns murderous. She knows this because his lips always become one thin line when he's about to tear someone out of existence.

"You realize, of course, that your thoughtless gesture will cause many innocent lives to be lost. The Countess had a great _deal_ of friends."

"None of her friends are innocent," she throws back, adamant not to let the guilt wash over her.

"Not even the one you were supposed to _kill_?"

Bonnie swallows. "No."

He chuckles darkly and tugs on her hair until her breath hitches in her throat. His mouth is close to her ear, spilling awful words inside it. "So, you do not care about the bloodshed and horror you will unleash upon Portofino, _nay_ , all of Italy?"

Bonnie feels bile rise in her throat. Her magic protests against his hold, but the hybrid's body has been hexed time and again; he is unruffled by her ministrations. If only she still had the power of a hundred witches...none of this would matter.

"Isn't that what you want?" she retorts, small tears stinging her eyes. "For me _not_ to care? For me to feel nothing?"

"Nothing? Why, I can see you are close to hysterics."

"I'm _not_ crying in front of you."

Klaus releases her hair. Bonnie staggers, and has to hold onto the bedpost for support. She's half naked and she's about to cry, despite her objection. She bites down on her tongue hard.

"I don't like your tone, little witch. You have _inconvenienced_ our sojourn."

"No," she spits, folding her arms over the battered bodice, "you wanted me to kill, no matter what. You wanted me to be a murderer. You're just mad you didn't get to pick the victim."

She's certain he's going to bite her now. His eyes are hooded and his mouth is curled up into a contemptuous smile. He looks feral. She's storing magic into her skin, readying herself for the attack.

Instead, Klaus pulls out his phone from his pocket.

"Who has a better chance of graduating high school, I wonder? Matt or Jeremy?"

Bonnie feels her throat tighten. She fumbles with her corset. "What -"

"You're right. _Neither_ of them." He punches a few dials and before she can blink, he's talking to one of his hybrids.

"Daryl, what's the weather like in Virginia?"

Later, she will blame the panic attack. A momentary lapse in sanity. She has to stop him before he utters his next words. But he is watching her carefully, ready to block any violent strike.

Bonnie releases the breath from her lungs and closes the gap between them. She rises on her tip-toes and presses her lips to his. Her hands grip his lapels uncertainly, afraid she'll fall if she doesn't. His lips are surprisingly soft, but they are frozen in place and she dreads the moment he will push her away.

The corset has fallen down her legs and she is standing naked, but for her underwear, kissing the very embodiment of evil. Somewhere in the back of her mind there is an endless scream.

When he responds, it shakes her worse than the Countess' blood. His lips move against hers, tenderly at first. She follows his lead awkwardly. She is saving her friends. That is what she's doing. If she pulls away now, someone will die. The thought makes the blood rush to her cheeks. He drops the phone at her feet and grips her chin, pulling her closer. Bonnie feels momentary relief - his hybrid will not dine on her friends. But now she is trapped in this dance, and she has got his full attention. She feels like a bird in a cage. Her hands are so close to his throat and she is pressing her breasts against his shirt. She's never done this before, never stood naked in front of anyone, not even Jeremy. She wants the earth to swallow her. Yet, there is something powerful about owning your vulnerability. He feels her nervous flutter, and snakes his hand around her waist, fingers running up and down her bare spine. He used that very hand to remove heads and rend hearts. There is still blood under the nails. She lets out a soft sound, not a gasp or a moan, but a throaty plea to let her go. Yet he's not applying pressure, he's not holding her down. She could flee at any moment. Why doesn't she?

He makes the choice for her and pulls his head back.

"Clever trick, I will admit," he rasps, eyeing her sardonically. She knows she's probably flushed, yet he... _he_ looks perfectly composed. She almost feels humiliated, until she hears his next words.

"But it won't get you out of your punishment." His voice comes out strangled and furious. "On the bed."

She blinks, mystified.

"I said, on the _bed_."

Her skin is prickled with goosebumps. She steps away from him instinctively and covers her chest.

"I did not say to cover yourself. I said. On. The. Bed."

Bonnie has never heard him like this before. The night has been a terrifying nightmare, but his voice brooks no argument. There is a ferocity in his tone which suggests he should not be toyed with. He's killed for her. The thought makes her take a few steps back, until her feet hit the edge of the bed. She sits down slowly.

"Lie down," he instructs coolly. "Hands above your head."

She swallows the outcry buried in her throat. The protests bubble and foam on the surface of her lips but she licks them off like cake icing, and stays silent. There is a tightness in her stomach. She just wants to get this over with.

Bonnie lies back and forces her hands above her head. She feels exposed and cold and feverish. She's naked on the bed, under his eyes. The light falls down mercilessly from the candelabra. Only a slip of underwear protects her so-called innocence.

Klaus does not move for several minutes, simply watching her from afar. His eyes roam over her body with precision, neither lingering nor rushing.

Bonnie has to press her toes together to stop her shivering. Her discomfort is nothing to him. But what she feels is difficult to qualify in words. She is an object put on display, yet she is pulsing from every fiber of her being. A relic should not be alive. She is thrumming. There are no chains around her wrists or ankles, nothing keeping her down. And still, she lies down and thinks on her transgression. She has tried to kill vampires before. Never like this. _Never_ like this. The Countess will haunt her. Her toes press together and curl within.

At length, when it almost becomes unbearable, he approaches the bed with calculated steps. He stops at the very edge and looks down at her.

She almost has the instinct to turn sideways and shield herself, but his jaw clicks. "Arms at your side."

She stands still.

Klaus tilts his head to the side and lowers his hand to her leg.

"Up," he orders. She raises her foot shakily. She wants to be in his head and know what he's about to do, but at the same time she doesn't want to know.

He grabs her leg and yanks it to him, until her foot is resting on his chest. She has a sudden sense of deja vu - that same night in this bedroom, when she slid down the bed in her camisole. When she disobeyed him. She clutches the sheets between her fingers.

Klaus strokes her calf pensively, running his knuckles up and down her leg.

"Do you know what happens to witches who are wicked?" he asks idly.

Bonnie grits her teeth. "They get burned at the stake?"

He smirks a cold smirk. "You wish."

His hand suddenly dips lower, moving to the hollow of her knee joint, and further down her thigh.

Bonnie chokes on her breath. She is sliding down the sheets and his hand is plunging lower and lower...

She is gulping for air. His hand settles on the inside of her thigh. His fingers are splayed possessively over the sensitive skin. There will be imprints later, she knows. His thumb is dangerously close to the hem of her underwear.

Her chest rises and falls frantically. Her eyes are wide and bereft of any coherent thought.

Klaus hums appreciatively at her reactions. His smile is vicious and she wants nothing more than to claw his eyes out and wipe his lips clean, but she is almost afraid to move.

"You probably think I am going to bite you," he mentions casually. His thumb swipes over her mound. The thin layer of cotton is a poor partition; Bonnie's hips jolt involuntarily at the sudden contact. She turns her head sideways, bites her lip down.

"But that would be _easy_."

It's just one word. It shouldn't affect her body so. Klaus has taunted her before, yet nothing could come close to this. This is brutal.

His thumb and forefinger rub over the sensitive flesh, turning the fabric of her underwear into a perfect torture. She groans into the sheets, trying to make sense of where she is, who she is with. This is Klaus Mikaelson, a monster like none other. And she's convulsing around his fingers.

She stifles another moan as his forefinger dips down and presses into the moisture pooling in the middle of her underwear. She hates her panties, wishes he would pull them off her legs and just goddamn -

 _What the hell is wrong with you?_

It feels as if her hands and legs and her entire body have gone numb and she cannot break away from this spell.

She writes under his touch, moves her head from side to hide, begging the invisible spirits to save her.

 _There is no one coming to save you._

"Please," she whispers throatily and she doesn't know if he's begging him to end it or end _her_. Perhaps it's the same thing.

He's so tall, standing over her like that. An implacable statue at the edge of her bed. But his eyes burn with dark satisfaction, she can see the flames flickering in his orbs.

"Please what?"

"Aaah!"

"I can't hear you," he mocks, relaxing the motion of his fingers. He is stroking her clit through the cotton with painstaking slowness.

Bonnie wants to sob. She's never been dragged to this precipice before. She wants to jump, she just wants to jump.

"Please, I - Oh, God -"

"You have to be more eloquent than that, love."

"Fast - faster," she croaks, hips moving of their own accord.

Klaus licks his lips. "But that is not the lesson."

His fingers stop altogether. And move away from her mound before she can even blink. He takes a step back.

Bonnie groans in despair, rubbing her thighs together, trying to get the much-needed friction back.

" _Legs apart._ "

His tone is forbidding and final. He parts her hips easily, forcing the cool air against the heated skin. He crouches down until he is level with her thighs.

"I told you, witch. _I_ say when you come."

Another deja-vu. He told her so when he left her room that night.

Klaus grips her thighs with a devilish grin.

"And right now," he trails off, blowing hot air on her underwear, "you _won't_."

Bonnie's eyes are wet with terror and arousal. Her body is crying out for him, and her mind is screaming betrayal. But he walks away from the bed, and she is condemned to lie in the pool of her own heat.

"I suggest you pack. We leave in an hour."

He is at the door when he pauses to look her up and down again. "Oh, and _do_ put some clothes on, Bonnie."

His parting smile is poison.

Bonnie curls into a fetal position on the bed and stares into nothingness. She has killed tonight. But that doesn't seem to matter. All that matters is that Klaus Mikaelson brought her close to foul ecstasy...and then denied her deliverance.

She will never come back from that.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: welcome back, trash fam! The fic of sin continues! Thanks a bunch for your commitment to trash, you're all good people. Lemme know how you like it!_

* * *

 **Chapter 6: the opposite of comfort**

* * *

The night does not forgive travelers.

It's often said that the day's light is harsh and revealing, whereas moonlight hides and conceals.

But if that were so, the weather-beaten quay would not look like a morgue table, stark white, ready for dissection.

She stumbles out of the hired car into his rough palms. He's touching her, even after what he's done. She can still feel the slick moisture on his fingers and, though that might be the sea spray, she can only picture the sweat running down her thighs. But she can't wrench out of his grasp. She has to get out of Portofino.

She opens her mouth and inhales the sharp breeze, cleansing her insides of him.

He is pulling her unkindly towards the yacht.

"It's a clear night, we should make good speed," the captain announces once they are boarded on the ship.

"I don't pay you to tell me what I already know. In fact, I don't pay you at all. Now, get us as far away as you possibly can," he instructs with a blink of an eye.

Bonnie has never been on a yacht before. This one looks like it was taken out of a magazine. There is a spacious apartment on the deck below, all polished ebony wood, gleaming metallic fixtures, plasma TVs and a sprawling queen-sized bed. Two bottles of rosé are cooling in the mini-fridge. There are expensive perfumed soaps in the bathroom.

She plops down on the bed's canapé and puts her head in her hands. Everything here reminds her of the Villa. The Countess was old and cruel, but perhaps she did not deserve to die on her birthday. Her loyal companions must be roaming through the streets, seeking vengeance. Klaus told her they would be hunted. Soon, their enemies will know they took to the sea.

 _ **Their**_ _enemies._

She feels astray. She's lost direction. Her goal was to kill Klaus and return home, to her friends and family. Now she's running away from a mistake she made. And she is running away with him.

"I _do_ hope you are not going to sulk."

Klaus is leaning against the wall, hands in his pocket. His face is reflected in the small mirror above the bed.

Bonnie glowers in reply.

"Ah. Predictable."

"Leave me _alone_. I don't want to hear your voice. I don't want to see your face."

The hybrid raises his fingers and touches the low ceiling, tracing meaningless patterns in the wood. She watches him, in spite of herself, because his hands now hold a mysterious, earthly sway. She thinks about the blood that has washed them, the blood of dozens upon dozens. He's left a mountain of corpses in his wake, and that was only this evening. His bloodshed would sink this boat. It would sink every boat in the dock. It would drown Portofino. And her too.

She shakes the image away and licks her cracked lips. "Didn't you hear me? Just go away."

"You are welcome to seek your solitude elsewhere. I intend to rest, since I've got more parasites to behead come daylight," he speaks, checking his phone emphatically. She can see the wires behind those muscles, the tension crackling underneath the surface. He blames her for all of this, and he enjoys doing it. He has humiliated her, but he is the one acting slighted.

Klaus walks up to the bed and slips off the suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. He proceeds to unbutton his cuffs methodically.

Bonnie jumps up. "You're a despicable bastard."

"C'est l'esprit de l'escalier," he shrugs, undeterred.

"I don't speak French."

"It means, you should have called me a bastard when you were writhing under my fingers."

She levies a short and angry wave of magic against his temples. Klaus pauses to look up at her.

"Ah, is it a fight you want? Because I can give you one, _love_."

He is buttoning down his shirt. She can see a sliver of toned skin.

Bonnie turns away, feeling half-disgust, half-curiosity. "Where are we going to go next, huh? Some fancy house on the French Riviera where you'll lock me up in a room and spend your time drinking and partying?"

Klaus shrugs off the shirt. "Don't ask questions you know the answers to."

She's startled by a jet-black bevy of birds strewn across his collarbone. She stumbles for words for a moment. She can't seem to look away from those inky sparrows. Eventually, she finds her voice.

"We - _you_ can't keep doing this. You _can't_ control me like this! Let me go home!"

"After what you've _done_?" he drawls flatly. "You don't get to run away from the mess you've caused."

"And what are we doing now if not running away?" she returns angrily.

"Believe it or not, foolish witch, I'm trying to save both our skins."

"I thought you're the _strongest_ being alive. Suddenly you need saving?"

He's got her up against the cabin wall before she can muster another word. His hand holds her by the throat gently. A feather touch full of violent intent. One small wrist movement, that's all it takes.

"Do it, then! I can't wait to get out of this _hell_ ," she spits full of rancor.

He tilts his head to the side pensively.

"You must have been _terribly_ bored with your humdrum life before I came into it."

Bonnie curls her lip in disgust. "That's not–"

"True? Then why do you throw yourself so eagerly in the face of danger? Is it that you _enjoy_ it?"

"Never," she grits her teeth.

Klaus pulls her chin forward. "I don't believe you." He presses his thumb over her pulse. "And you don't believe it either."

He releases her too quickly for Bonnie to think of a scathing reply.

"Now, you said you wanted to be alone. So _go_."

She only catches a last glimpse of his bare back and another series of strange tattoos, before she marches up the short flight of stairs to the main deck.

* * *

It's been so long since she's worn sensible clothes, she almost relishes the occasion. She's wearing baggy pants and a comfortable sweater. The trainers on her feet feel divine. She has missed these simple things. She misses her old "humdrum" life too, no matter what nonsense Klaus wants her to believe. He knows _nothing_ about her.

She doesn't want to think about him.

She is standing at the bow, leaning her elbows against the rail, looking out at a myriad of glimmering lights. They are slowly drawing further away from coast. Soon, those lights will be gone and it will only be sea for miles and miles. She's never been this far from land before. It's as if civilization were slowly expiring and there was only you and...whatever else is left out there.

Two men are positioned behind her, standing guard. Sea patrol, by the looks of them, but the hybrid compelled them to get on this luxury yacht and keep watch.

 _He thinks of everything, doesn't he?_

No, not everything. He didn't think she'd kill the Countess, did he?

The breeze runs through her hair, leaving tangled whorls behind. The air is thick with salt and something else…an animal smell. The waves scratch the boards idly, dipping the boat up and down, up and down, putting her in a trance.

The lights in the distance are dim now, everything is dark and cool. She's nowhere. It doesn't matter what she's done, it doesn't matter she's too young. Here, she is ageless and innocent. The sea gives her anonymity.

"Lovers' quarrel?" a voice asks behind her.

It's their captain. He's still got a film over his eyes that tells her he's compelled, but he's got an honest smile on his lips.

"Sorry?"

"You and that man of yours. Fighting, eh?" His accent is foreign, but it doesn't sound Italian.

Bonnie shakes her head. "No. I mean yes. I don't know. He's not my –"

He raises his arm in understanding. "I am divorced from the wife for three years now," he explains in a stilted English. "Still want her very much. Sometimes I go to her. Always, I regret."

"I'm sorry about your wife. But it's not like that with me."

"You're not his wife?" he says with an inkling of mischief. "Even better."

Bonnie smiles sadly. Telling this man she and Klaus are sworn enemies might sound a bit ridiculous. She lets him believe what he wants.

"A man loves mistress more than wife. Do you know why?"

Bonnie indulges him. "Why?"

"Wife divorce you, leave you, take all you have. Mistress stay with you."

She stifles a chuckle. "Maybe."

"You stay with him, eh? Even when it goes bad?"

Bonnie watches the delicate wreath of foam break beneath the boat's starboard.

"I don't think I have a choice."

The captain seems impressed with her answer. Unconditional love, he must be thinking. Bonnie wonders about unconditional hatred.

They sit in silence for a few moments more.

"Getting a bit cloudy," he says, chewing on his lip. "Not so good. Might be small storm coming."

Bonnie looks nonplussed. "But it seems fine –"

As if to answer her words, a flash of white suddenly lights up the sky.

The captain nods sagely. "Small storm on the horizon. Nothing to worry about. All in a regular night. But you go below deck."

Bonnie doesn't need to be told twice.

* * *

It's dark and quiet in the bedroom. The boat is tilting more heavily than before. She has to hold onto the walls to make it to the bed. Thunder rolls above her head, like stones being chucked down from the sky. She crouches down on her knees. She's never been afraid of storms. But she's always been on land. The sea is a different thing. She can taste the salty water on her tongue. Her teeth are rattling in her mouth. If this is only a small tempest, she can't imagine what a big one feels like.

She finally sees him. He's lying down on the bed, still as a statue. His bare chest is moving up and down regularly, but it's such a small movement, you can barely catch it. He appears to be sleeping.

 _How can he sleep through this?_

Bonnie stifles a shriek as she feels her feet slipping away from underneath her. She makes a mad dash for the bed and sinks down on it, pulling the quilt over her head.

She tries to put as much space between their bodies as she can, which isn't hard to do when the bed is gigantic. Still, the boat is tilting over dangerously and she has to grip the edge to stay on her side.

In time, she feels the sea grow calmer. But her own heart is still hammering in her chest. She feels alone, adrift. Miles away from any home, any kind of safety. She can't conjure up any good memories. The world is upside down and there is no one who can help her.

When she can't bear it any longer, she turns around and faces him. His profile is half-hidden in the shadows, his eyes are shut, and he looks peaceful, sleeping.

Well, as peaceful as he can be. There are deep lines around his mouth and eyes. Not age lines. His youth is unquestioned. But the lines are a warning, to whosoever underestimates him.

The rumble of thunder makes the small mirror above the bed clatter. Bonnie grits her teeth. She can't sit like this, she can't wait for the night to pass.

She shuffles close to him, until he is only a breath away. Careful not to wake him, Bonnie raises his arm and gently sets it aside. She slides easily into his body and places her head on his chest.

She might be going insane. There is no conceivable way to explain this tomorrow, but she is scared now, and he is a warm body and she is going to use him. The least he could do is lie there and let her feel safe. It's an illusion. He is the opposite of shelter, the opposite of comfort. But she can make herself believe otherwise. She can pretend.

His skin feels like hot coals, but she accepts the stifling warmth. Nothing with him is ever pleasant. She closes her eyes and lets a tear slip down her cheek.

The hand on her back should make her jump, but she only flinches. She's expected him. She knows she can't move away now. His fingers dive under her sweater on her bare back.

"You are shaking."

"No," she contradicts stupidly. "I'm just tired."

"You're crying," he speaks again, and this time, it's difficult to say no because the tears are falling on his skin.

"It's hard not to cry when I'm stuck here with you."

"That's not why."

His fingers press down on her spine, releasing the tension she did not know was there.

Bonnie exhales. "I _killed_ her."

"Yes, you did."

"She was old and sad. And it wasn't her choice she was a vampire, it wasn't her fault-"

Klaus removes his hand from her back and lets it sink into her hair. This time, he is gentle when he pulls her towards him.

"You don't care about the Countess, love. You only care about your conscience."

Bonnie can't see his eyes, and yet she can feel them weighing her down anyway.

"If you want to respect the dead…if you want death to matter…you must renounce your conscience." His hand is still tangled in her hair and his thumb charts a strange little drawing on her nape. She wonders, absently, if it's a sparrow.

"Give up your conscience? But that's destructive and it's–"

"The hardest thing you'll ever do," he finishes her words for her. "The biggest sacrifice you'll ever make."

Bonnie shakes her head. "I don't understand."

"Humans kill. Most of them regret it. They atone and suffer and punish themselves. But they only do it so they can feel good again. Immortals kill. They never regret it. They do not atone and do not suffer. They do not try to feel good about what they did. In that way, they honor the dead."

Bonnie blinks fast. The picture he's painted is twisted and bizarre and it blinds her normal vision of the world. But it makes _sense_ somehow. A part of her almost acquiesces...and yet she doesn't.

"That still doesn't make it right."

He chuckles and his chest rumbles like thunder. "I never said it was right. But what will you do when it's _my_ turn?"

"What?"

"If you're falling to pieces over a greedy old hag whom you barely knew, how will you ever recover from killing _me_?"

She feels a pressure in her throat. She almost wants to scream. Here she is sitting, practically in his arms, and it was her own doing. Is he getting to her? Is that what is happening? Her hand rests on his chest. His heartbeat is faint. She can hardly hear it. Maybe she can't hear it at all. But her hand still lies there, all five fingers spread wide, so as to touch even more of his skin. She feels disconnected from her body. How can it stand so close to him?

His hand pushes her chin up, slowly exposing her throat. "I'll spare you that answer. I haven't fed in quite some time."

Bonnie shivers. "I'm not a blood bag."

"No…" he trails off, and his other hand wraps around her waist, until she is strapped to him. "But you _are_ offering."

Bonnie feels his hand on her bare back again, but this time he's pulling the sweater up, up, up….

Her stomach meets his exposed skin and she squirms against him with a mixture of fear and heady desire. This is too intimate, more intimate than making her come undone around his fingers, more intimate than kissing him on the lips. It's not supposed to happen, not when you hate someone unconditionally.

He senses her panic and doesn't let her retreat; he reaches hungrily for her throat, kissing the hollow where shoulder meets neck, burying his nose there. Bonnie tilts her head back against her will. Her lips part in supplication. She wants to tell him to stop. She wants to get up and leave him cold and ashamed, just like he left her on that other bed.

But he suddenly flips them over, and he is on top of her and she is trapped underneath him, and she can see the sparrows on his collarbone and she wants –

But _how_ can she see them so clearly?

There is light coming from the stairs. And it happens too fast. Three darts hit Klaus' back and he falls flat on top of her.

"Lovers made up, I see."

The Captain pulls an unconscious Klaus off of her, and aims a fourth arrow in her stomach.

The world goes black.

But she has time to hear one more thing before she goes under. "Lucien is waiting for you."


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: welcome back, trash fam! this chapter is pretty gigantic for my standards, so that's why it took so long to finish (laziness is also a factor, but I'm also pretty specific about prose, snob alert!). Thanks again for everyone reviewing this piece of sin and enjoying it!_

 _Sidenote: some parts of this chapter refer to stuff that happened in previous chapters (you'll know what I mean when you get there). So keep an eye out._

 _Anyway, have fun!_

* * *

 **Chapter 7: he quite loves the Baltic Sea**

* * *

She hears the waves before she sees them properly. The gentle lull is enough to put her back to sleep, but she makes an effort to open her eyes.

The sea is there, dark and white around the edges, like a mirror that reflects nothing. She can see it through a broken window.

Bonnie sits up on her elbows. There is no glass to keep the cool breeze away. In fact, it's just a crude opening in the stone wall. The room looks like a monk cell, bare and frigid and clearly a few centuries old. It's like something out of _The Count of Monte Cristo_.

She wonders, briefly, if Klaus has decided to take them to a convent. It's just the kind of ironic thing he'd do.

But gradually, she remembers the previous hours; the yacht, the captain, the bed, her head on his chest.

She's lying in a different bed now, still fully clothed thankfully. And Klaus isn't there. No, he wouldn't be.

Bonnie tries to stand up, but she falls back on the mattress like a raggedy doll. Her muscles cry out under her skin. A crippling pain shoots up her spine. Her throat is parched. She coughs for a full minute to regain her breath. Her strength has been compromised. She touches her stomach gingerly. There is a mark there under her sweater. A short, but ugly gash left by an arrow. The wound has been cleaned and sewn shut, but whatever substance was injected in her is still not out of her system.

She waits, for hours it seems, to try again. Day and night are entwined, indistinguishable almost. She thrashes and sweats and dreams of nothing. The sea remains the same, dark and white around the edges. After a long time, she gets up.

She hops more than walks to the opening in the wall. She looks down and catches her breath. She is not afraid of heights, but she feels dizzy at the sight of that deadly drop. The shoreline is hundreds of feet below. Bonnie leans forward nervously. To the west and the east there is only more shore and sea. A waxing crescent moon is her sole incandescent guide.

The coast looks nothing like Portofino. It should be dotted with villas and summer houses and pleasure cruisers; you would not be able to drop a needle in between. This is no man's land. There is no dock where a boat might rest, no lighthouse that could guide a floundering sailor home, no remote fisherman's shack.

There's only the stone edifice. She can't tell if it's a palace or a tower.

Bonnie resists the urge to sit down on the cold slabs. She has to stand, or she'll never get up.

She feels the injustice of her circumstances. When will she escape this long night? When will the mysteries end? She's only a girl from a small town. Who just so happened to anger a volatile hybrid. And all she can do now is keep going …or lose herself indefinitely.

There is a door at the opposite end of the room, but she imagines it's bolted shut.

Her surprise is not small when it only takes a soft push for the hatch to creak open.

Is she not a prisoner, then?

She steps out on the landing. She is staring at a narrow staircase, winding down into the dark belly of the unknown. If she plunges ahead, she will not be able to see anything. But if she stays here, the darkness will come for her anyway.

One hand glued to the wall, she makes her way down.

* * *

There is laughter on the corridor. It sounds like children's laughter. She can almost hear their little feet padding on the wooden floor. Bonnie flattens herself against the wall to let them pass, but no one does. There is only darkness and the cool draft that wraps around her bare ankles.

She thinks she sees a floating white dress in front of her, but it turns out to be cobwebs. There are picture frames on the walls, but she knows this only from touching the frames haphazardly.

The floorboards groan under her bare feet, but the echo is far too human for her liking. There's murmuring and something that sounds like prayer…more laughter…maybe even a lullaby…

Someone touches her shoulder. When she turns around, startled, it's only the sharp point of a blade. She is looking at a blazon, or what appears to be a family crest. It's got two short swords plunged into the frontispiece. She can't make out what it's supposed to represent. The image has faded with time.

Bonnie tries to drag a sword out but they're both stuck fast to the blazon. And they're rusted with age.

Everything here is ancient.

She thinks she's in a dining room now, because she keeps running into long tables and hard-backed chairs as she goes along. Her eyesight has yet to get accustomed to the dark. This is a special kind of dark, its texture too thick for penetration.

She thinks she hears a violin this time. The melody is faint, at first, but as she keeps walking, it gets louder and louder until it sounds shrill and plaintive. It makes her skin bristle. The player must be _torturing_ those violin strings, because the music becomes unbearable. Bonnie turns back, wanting to put as much distance between her and those sounds. But the further she runs, the closer she seems to be getting to the violin. She can hear it behind her, in front of her, in her ears, in her mouth...

She can't breathe. There's a tall window in front of her. The latch is open. She sees the terrace and a short flight of stairs, bathed in moonlight.

 _Run, run, run, run…_

She flees right into the maelstrom of persecuted strings and the music lashes at her with a terrible vengeance. Bonnie screams and covers her ears, but the sounds are everywhere, bursting her eardrums, blistering her skin.

She kneels on the marble floor.

A pair of polished shoes stops right next to her bowed head.

The violin emits one last choked ripple before the music stops completely.

"Did you like my playing? I've been practicing for centuries," she hears a man speak. His voice is theatrical, the words minced and ground into submission.

She sees the violin resting against his leg. His name is etched there in cursive lettering.

"This little ditty can be found in _Malleus Maleficarum._ No one takes that old treatise seriously anymore, but its methods are still quite efficient. _Sanctus Dominus_ played backwards really does make a witch howl."

Bonnie grits her teeth. "Lucien."

"How perceptive of you. Shall we make introductions, _Bonnie_? Are you as lovely as your namesake?"

"Where am I?" she asks, looking up at him for the first time. There's nothing too frightening about his face, apart from that mad glint in his eye.

"On the esplanade, of course. Naughty little witch. She should rest in her room instead of wandering."

"You mean my cell."

"The door was not barred, as you must have discovered," he points out defensively.

"So then, I can leave this place?"

Lucien smiles ruefully. "That remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

Bonnie raises her hand towards him. "Help me get up."

If he's surprised at her demand he doesn't show it. He quickly offers his arm with another pointed smile.

Bonnie grips the flesh and shoots magic through her fingertips, muttering under her breath.

Lucien barks out a laugh. "How positively shrewd! But I'm afraid it won't do you any good, my dear. You are depleted."

He shakes her off like dead weight and Bonnie stumbles back on the marble floor. Her knees take the brunt of the fall.

"That hurt," she musters.

"Pardon my manners, but I'm not inclined to courtesy at the moment. I am in mourning, you see."

Bonnie is seized with the sudden realization that she hasn't thought about the Countess in hours, _days_ perhaps. Shame and remorse flood her without preamble.

"I'm sorry –"

"If you intend to apologize for your master, save your breath."

"My _master_? What do you mean -"

"Do not play coy," Lucien interrupts haughtily. "I know very well you were witness to his crime."

"His crime," she echoes faintly.

"I should tell you, none of your entreaties will spare him his punishment. The Countess was _mine_. I do not tolerate the murder of my own. Niklaus knows this very well."

Bonnie looks down at her hands, bathed white by moonlight. Lucien is accusing Klaus of the Countess' murder. Did Klaus take the blame for her? Why? What is going on?

She doesn't have time to ruminate, because Lucien has put bow to string and the discordant melody flares up again, tormenting her every nerve.

Bonnie clutches her head. "Stop it!"

"Come along then, little witch, we have much to discuss!" Lucien cries out over his shoulder, and he waltzes back inside with his violin. Bonnie has no choice but to follow. The music is impossible to resist. It drags her into darkness like a cat tugging at a mouse.

.

* * *

"What was in that arrow?"

Lucien feigns innocence as he holds the bottle of brandy over the fire. "Nothing fatal, darling."

Bonnie touches the wound under her sweater. "Something bad for a witch. Something like…" She tries to remember all those hours of studying that her Grams had imposed on her, "valerian and nettle?"

Lucien smiles good-humoredly. "A very good guess, but my concoction also includes a dash of cinquefoil. It's a personal touch."

"It won't keep me down for long, you know. My powers are recovering," she informs him sharply.

"Oh, I _know_. If I'd wanted to, I could have paralyzed your magic for months, maybe years."

A shiver runs down her arm at his words.

"You're lying."

Lucien smirks impishly. She must admit he is handsome, in a rascal-sort-of-way.

"I could be. How would you know? You're a young witch. You've still got a lot to learn."

"Don't patronize me," she blurts out, more annoyed with herself than him. Why didn't Grams tell her about people like Lucien?

"Nik's tastes have improved in my absence," he muses. "Usually, his witches aren't quite so…brazen."

Bonnie stares into the fire, determined not to respond to his taunts. She's grateful for the warmth, at least.

At length, she asks, "Why _didn't_ you paralyze my magic for good?"

"Clever girl," he chuckles. "I'm glad you brought that up. You see, I believe you and I need each other."

Bonnie can't help the snort of disbelief.

"Yes, I can see how that looks. A couple of centuries ago I would not have imagined I'd be bartering deals with one of Niklaus' witches."

"Deals?" she clears her throat.

Lucien offers her a tumbler and pours some brandy into it. "Well, call them what you will. But I, unlike Nik, _do_ keep them. When I promise something, I usually deliver. I don't know what he's promised you, but I believe I can outmatch it."

Bonnie almost laughs, because Klaus, the Original Hybrid, can't be easily surpassed in her estimations, but then again, it wouldn't do well to compliment a monster. A monster with a lot of enemies, it seems.

"He…hasn't promised me much," she replies with reservation. She stares at the carmine liquid. "But you've got another thing coming if you think I'll accept anything from a person who stabbed me with an arrow and made my ears bleed."

Lucien barks out a laugh. "No, I didn't think so. But in my defense, I told that oafish captain to be gentler with you."

"He wasn't."

"I'll see that he's punished accordingly."

"No! He was acting under _your_ orders. You're the one who deserves punishment," she retorts and almost throws the tumbler at him, but he's beside her in the blink of an eye and he's got one strong hand wrapped around her wrist before she can do anything.

"I wouldn't waste that brandy I were you."

"Believe me, I wouldn't _waste_ it," she spits, trying to twist her arm away. But it's like fighting hard metal.

He shakes his head with a smile. "You're rather proud, aren't you? I knew I picked well, this time."

Bonnie can smell the honeyed scent of his skin. Perhaps that is what old vampires smell like. Klaus doesn't smell _sweet_. She finds strange comfort in that.

"Picked well?" she echoes, wrinkling her nose.

"It doesn't matter who deserves punishment," he continues thoughtfully, as if he had never been interrupted. "In the end, it's only Niklaus who deserves to suffer, don't you think, Bonnie?"

She stares at him. " _Where_ is Klaus?"

He releases her wrist. "Don't fret, darling. Your master is safe and sound for now."

"I'm not fretting," she replies archly. She doesn't like the way he keeps calling Klaus her master.

"That's right," he gleans victoriously. "You are his witch, but you don't _like_ him very much, do you?"

Bonnie scoffs. "Does anyone like Klaus very much?"

Lucien barks out another foppish laugh. "You are more right than you know. That is why I believe we may come to an agreement. I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't like Nik very much either."

"You don't say…"

"It's not just the fact that he killed my poor Countess, you know."

Bonnie stiffens imperceptibly. There it is again. What _has_ Klaus told him? Why has he taken the blame for it?

"He's been a terrible Sire from the beginning."

Bonnie blinks. "Sire?"

"Oh, yes, did I not mention? He _made_ me, of course. I'm his very first vampire."

Her eyes widen considerably. "His _first_. Then you're…"

"Over one thousand years old, yes."

Bonnie suddenly feels very stupid, because she's been talking back to a semi-Original _and_ she's got little to no magic on her side.

"Oh."

"Ah, see, this is why I hardly ever reveal my age. Pretty girls like you don't like old men."

Bonnie ignores his comments. "What has Klaus done to you?"

"Besides making me immortal and eternally miserable? Oh, plenty of other inequities. I shan't bore you. You know half of them already."

Bonnie frowned. "I do?"

"Of course. All of his witches have suffered, without exception."

Bonnie licks her lips. They feel dry and cracked. She looks down into her tumbler. The brandy could be more witch poison, but she _is_ thirsty and she _knows_ it's going to be a long night.

She takes a long gulp. Lucien smiles.

The alcohol burns a line down her throat, but it's not altogether unpleasant.

"How many witches has he…" she trails off, uncertain. She doesn't know the tail-end of that question. She doesn't know if she wants to know.

"Oh, who can keep count now?" Lucien shrugged. "It must be in the hundreds. Why, every year there seemed to be a new one. Sometimes, every other month."

"Every _month_?" Bonnie echoes in disbelief.

Lucien snorts. "He hasn't told you much, has he? He wouldn't, of course. He can be very private, my Sire. But he can't hide his addiction for too long. And I'm not talking about blood."

Bonnie squirms in her seat. She wants to stop him from talking, but she also craves to hear more.

"Nik can manage his blood well enough. It's the witches that are the problem. He simply can't get enough of them. Never could."

Bonnie keeps her voice even with great effort. "Can't get enough of them? What does that mean –"

Lucien is suddenly close to her again. His smile is almost sympathetic this time around. He has one hand perched under her chin. She wants to push it away, but can't find the strength to do it.

"You would have found out soon enough, had I not come along, darling."

Bonnie swats his words away, like wasps that sting, like wasps that have already _stung_. She must not yield. Lucien is only frightening her.

"Let me guess," he continues mercilessly. "First he took you to the city of fair Verona. Nik has always been sentimental like that; he's got a soft spot for tragedies. You must not hold it against him. I'm sure he stood with you on Juliet's balcony. The _real_ one, not the cheap thing they show the tourists. Did you both look down into the river?"

Bonnie chokes back a gasp. She remembers the balcony, jutting out at uneven angles, she remembers Klaus pointing out the girl in the mermaid-green dress, floating in the undercurrent...

"He probably presented you to Severino while he was there. Does that name ring a bell? Of course it does. I'm sure Severino made you mistress of ceremonies." Noticing Bonnie's look of confusion, Lucien elaborated. "You opened up the veins of his victims, served them on a platter. That's how Nik always begins; he trains his witches to become immune to human bloodshed."

"Next, he must have taken you to Venice. Am I right? You see, Venice has got the best infant market for blood-drinkers. He must have wanted you to witness child desiccation. His witches must be indifferent to the fate of babes."

Bonnie thinks she is going to be sick. She is going to vomit on the threadbare carpet. But Lucien's words ring harsh and true in her ears, and they make her chest burn. Because hadn't Klaus promised her a punishment worse than death? Hadn't he promised to harden her beyond mercy?

"And then, Portofino," Lucien murmurs, almost apologetically, although she can hear the smugness in his tone. "It's a favorite location of his. I will admit, I am fond of it myself. Or at least I _was_ , until my child died. But I cannot lie. I was never _happy_ with Klaus bringing his witches to my Countess."

"Why not?" she asks, as if through a thick film of fog. Her voice sounds mechanical to her ears.

"Because the Countess happens to own one of the largest collections of bottled human blood. You may have heard of the brew. _Sang-Froid_. Intoxication in a bottle."

Bonnie has. And she has tasted it. She remembers going down into the vaults. She remembers drinking with relish and abandon from a bottle, she remembers Klaus watching her.

"You can imagine what that wine does to witches. It's not meant to be drunk by mortals. In time, it can become quite a nasty habit. As it _did_ , for several of Nik's witches. They were far more…uninhibited after that. They would do and say things they normally wouldn't. It was a _sight_ to see. They would dance madly into the night, coat themselves in blood from head to toe, and let their master lead them into oblivion."

Bonnie is shivering uncontrollably. She remembers how Klaus wiped the wine from her lips. She remembers…wanting to float…wanting to kiss the bottle's lips again and again and again…

"I hope I am not distressing you with such details, Bonnie. I know _you_ haven't fallen prey to such horrors yet." Lucien is caressing her arm gently.

Bonnie does not want his comfort. She wants the truth, the whole truth.

"What happened next?"

"Sorry, darling?"

"To the witches. Where would he take them after Portofino?"

Lucien frowns, as if he was expecting a different question from her. But he obliges.

"It depends. He was always fond of Valencia. Alicante has an opening to the sea. He could give his witches a proper send-off there. Sometimes he'd burn them on Rügen. It's an island in the Baltic Sea. He quite loves the Baltic Sea. I think it reminds him of his Viking ancestors…"

He hasn't noticed that Bonnie is staring at him, wide-eyed. " _Burns_ them?"

"Oh, yes. They would not live long after so many feedings. When their spirits withered completely, he would make them a funeral pyre and give them a Viking adieu. Let it not be said he does not have _some_ honor, my Sire."

Bonnie feels sweat pooling on her upper lip. She swallows dryly. Her throat is still burning. She has to ask one question at a time. " _Feedings_? You mean the wine?"

Lucien smiles. "Don't play the innocent, darling. Every night, he comes into your chamber, doesn't he? He sits down by the bed and asks you if you are asleep."

Bonnie tightens her grip on the tumbler. "Yes…" she concedes, remembering the way Klaus stood at her bedside when she did not come down to the feast.

"He asks you to offer your neck. And the poor little witch _must_ obey. It's not unpleasant, after all. It only lasts a pinch…"

Bonnie reflexively touches her neck. He was going to feed on her in the cabin. And she was going to let him.

"But day after day, it eats away at your spirit. Drinking is still quite better than being drunk _from_ , you will agree. Nik can't help himself. The witch's blood is the greatest boon that comes with the conquered witch. _Personally_ ," Lucien pauses, drawing a finger towards himself haughtily, "I don't see the great fuss. I won't deny the blood is marvelous, but I don't care whether it comes from a witch or a goblin. Mind you, I prefer drinking from a pretty face." He winks at her. "Still, the witch is _his_ obsession. Has always been."

He is quiet after that, studying her, waiting for her response.

Bonnie is too shell-shocked to offer anything but a terse shake of her head. All she can think of is being made into a funeral pyre and cast off into the Baltic Sea. And the worst part is that, she knows Lucien is telling the truth, _all_ of it. She feels it in her bones, the way she's always been able to feel supernaturals. Damon and Stefan could never lie to her.

"Tell me, Bonnie," Lucien says at length, growing tired of her silence, "have you not felt your powers growing weaker?"

Bonnie glances at him, distracted. He's still here, talking to her. She _does_ feel weak, because of his arrow. But he isn't referring to the arrow…

"Surely, you don't want to end up like the rest of them, do you?" he insists, gentle but firm.

It's then that the fog lifts.

 _Klaus has never fed on me._

"There is still time," Lucien continues quickly. "He has not depleted you yet."

Bonnie parts her lips. _But I'm not depleted._ _He's never fed on me. Not once. He wanted to – in the cabin – but_ –

Her mind fails to provide a continuation. She does not understand why Klaus hasn't done it already. Why he did not do it from the beginning. Weeks went by and he never...

Perhaps he is saving it for a special occasion. Perhaps he wants to drink her all in one go.

She shivers deeply at the thought.

Lucien misinterprets her silence. He nods, with conviction. "I can help you get away from him. We can help each other, darling."

Bonnie looks up at him, then. She sees his impatience. He's wanted to arrive at this point from the start.

"What do you want from me?" she asks quietly.

Lucien sighs with relief. "Now that we understand each other…what I want is simple. I want to kill my maker."

Bonnie is not very shocked. Many people want to kill Klaus, but she _is_ startled by the ease with which Lucien launched the proposition. She's still reeling in the aftermath of his revelations, but he only seems mildly inconvenienced.

Before she can reply, he's already raised a hand. "I _know_ you can't kill him. From what I understand, you've got vampire friends who have been sired from his line. They would perish too." He chuckles. "So would I."

Bonnie raises her eyebrows in confusion. "Then…you would commit suicide?"

Lucien smirks with relish. "I like myself too much for that. No, I've got a better plan, darling. Only Nik needs to die."

He offers his hand. "Come, let me show you."

Bonnie hesitates for a moment, but she remembers Klaus' thumb on her lips, wiping away the wine, and she takes Lucien's hand.

* * *

She is looking at a spell, a complicated spell. It's got to be several centuries old, but there have been additions and alterations made to it across the years. And that makes the magical web difficult to master. It's like being in several places at once. Her forehead is wrinkled in concentration. She can't even follow all the trajectories. It's too _hard_.

But Grams did always say nothing is hard; it's just _shy_.

"The spell is being shy, Bonnie. You have to coax it out."

"Well?" Lucien asks, voice dripping with pride.

"This would...break Klaus' lineage," she surmises, flipping the parchment over.

" _Very_ good. It would un-sire all his children from him. And thus, we would be free to do with him what we please."

Bonnie feels her fingers tremble slightly at the thought. _He never drank from me. Why didn't he?_

She focuses on the magic instead. She brings the candlestick closer to the Grimoire.

"There's one problem. Magic like this can't be done in a vacuum. If we un-sire all of his line, we create chaos in nature…vampires might die anyway. Every creation needs a creator."

Lucien winks at her. "Clever girl, again. But I've got that solved too."

Bonnie frowns. "You have?"

"You are staring at the solution," he beams, brushing the lapels of his jacket. "Nik's line would have to be transferred to a vampire as strong and old as he. And who is stronger than his first-born, his very _first_ child?"

Bonnie gapes at him. "You… you want to become the new Sire?"

Lucien nods, flashing his teeth. "I believe I am quite up to the task."

"So, my friends would be sired to _you_ , afterwards?" she asks, narrowing her eyes. "That's not exactly better."

Lucien puts his hand over his chest, his expression almost genuinely hurt. "It's not _worse_ , though, is it? Come now, Bonnie. I don't care for your friends! Which is a good thing, because it means I would leave them well _alone_. In fact, I don't intend to ever step a foot in that hick town of yours."

Bonnie feels absurdly compelled to defend her tiny neck of the woods. Mystic Falls is not glamorous or very smart, but it's still home.

"I know I haven't been very trustworthy, Bonnie," Lucien presses on passionately. "But trust _this_. My desire to kill Nik is much stronger than any desire to hurt your friends. Or you, for that matter. I don't share his craving for witches. I have other cravings, all mine own."

Bonnie watches him as he struts towards her, confidently, but also hopeful. She can see this has been brewing in his mind and heart for quite some time. She's frightened sometimes, how quickly witches can guess the desires of others.

He stops in front of her, lifts her hand to his fingers. "What I crave is _justice_ for myself and others who have been wronged by Niklaus Mikaelson. I want to _end_ his reign of terror. And I see in you my twin inquisitor."

His eyes are gleaming madly again, but he is not repellent. There's something graceful about his conviction.

"Will you help me, Bonnie?"

She thinks she hears the laughter of children again. Somewhere in the distance, they are running, their little feet padding down the corridor. This house is full of whispers, songs of old, secrets which should never be uttered…

She wonders if the Countess was born here, made into an immortal, only to be killed by a girl.

 _Why did he take the blame for the Countess? Why did he never drink from me?_ she asks, but no one answers.

She nods imperceptibly, to herself or Lucien, she cannot tell.

"Where is Klaus?" she finally asks again.

Lucien caresses her fingers softly. "Shall we see him together, then?"


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: soooo, this chapter is a big one, more in importance than in length. I mean, the title is "point of no return" guys. Tread carefully? I mean, this is not too dark in my book, but your mileage may vary. Thanks for all your reviews and hit me up with some love if you liked it!_

* * *

 **Chapter 8: the point of no return**

* * *

The castle is possessed with a monstrous architecture, the likes of which she has never seen. Now, with light and Lucien guiding her path, she can look closely at the corridors that she traversed in the dark and wonder at their strange symmetry. The lines are crooked, almost menacing in their deviating contour. The rooms have many doors and the doors have many rooms and you can get lost in them and never find your way back. Every corner is sharp and brutal, nipping at your skin if you come too close, and many passages fool you into thinking they go on forever, only to lead you to a dead-end.

"What is this place?" she asks in a voice barely above whisper.

Lucien smiles benevolently. "Nothing too fearsome. Merely an incubator."

"A _what_?"

"A hatchery, if you prefer. We used to make some of our best vampires in this very castle."

"You and Klaus?"

"Us and many more…we were a merry band, indeed. Don't look so alarmed, darling. I am not hosting any newborns currently."

And yet, Bonnie isn't so sure. The floorboards still creak with little feet. There is laughter like bell chimes in the walls. And a lullaby sung in hushed tones reminds her of her childhood … Are these only the ghosts of children?

She glances sideways at Lucien's confident profile and thinks about the Countess stumbling through this unforgiving maze. An old woman, newly made immortal, trying to gather her bearings in the dark. It must have made Lucien scorn her. She remembers what the Countess said about him. He called her a cow. He reduced her to tears.

Why did he even _make_ her? Did vampires turn humans for sport? Did they only want to watch their frailness amplified, their pitiful desires embellished?

She can see moonlight ahead of her, faint but unmistakable. They are walking towards an open courtyard, surrounded on all sides by fortified walls.

As she draws closer, she can see a dark structure, rising from the stone slabs like jagged teeth. Thick chains fetter it to the ground. Bonnie parts her lips in surprise.

It's a cage. A strange, grotesque cage, full of spikes and blades which are pointed inwardly. And in the middle of this cage stands Klaus, impaled and punctured, like a lion which has been captured and put down. There is no room for him to stand without getting pierced. He bleeds and then he heals and then he bleeds all over again. His body sways weakly as the blades cut through his flesh.

Bonnie swallows the bile she feels rising in her throat. Klaus might deserve no better treatment than this vile torture, but she can't stand to look. Wasn't it enough to just lock him in the dungeons and throw away the key? Why put on this garish display?

It only makes it worse when Klaus finally senses her presence. His body stands upright all of a sudden, and some of his weakness seems to ebb away. He reaches out an arm towards her, but he is heavily torn by lances and spears on all sides. He howls, and his eyes beckon to her with a fire that is both wrathful and imploring.

Lucien titters blithely as he steps forward on the edge of the court.

"My, aren't we having a rough night."

He takes Bonnie by the arm and leads her towards the cage, which has the effect of rattling the hybrid even more. But she doesn't move away from Lucien's grasp. Bonnie Bennett does not go back on her word. She said she would do it, and so she will. She will perform the spell and sever Klaus' lineage. It's the right thing to do. Isn't it? The verdict has been passed; there isn't room for questions now. Good can only be performed without doubt. And …she has none.

"I'm afraid it's not going to get any better for you, Nik. You see, I have freed the witch from your hold," Lucien continues smugly. "And she wants to destroy you just as much as I do."

 _Destroy_. The word seems so final. Bonnie feels the hybrid's stare pricking her skin, but she refuses to look up and meet his gaze.

"Now, darling, shall we begin?" Lucien asks, turning towards her with an inviting smile.

She knows very well what he means. The spell requires a blood linkage between the witch who performs it and the new bearer of the Sire Line. She has to give some her blood to Lucien. But does it have to be this way?

"Do we have to do it here and now?" she asks quietly, taking hold of his arm and pulling him away from the cage.

"Why, I see no better time or place. Let him _watch_."

"You are enjoying this too much," Bonnie grits under her breath.

"And you _aren't_? Darling, this man has only caused you pain and here he stands, chained before you. You should be celebrating."

Bonnie purses her lips. "Let me decide how I celebrate. Give me a knife. I'll make the cut and give you a full glass."

Lucien smirks. "Hand _you_ a sharp blade? I feel I oughtn't. Besides, why shouldn't we do this the old-fashioned way?"

"I'm a modern girl," Bonnie snaps, her magic bristling under her skin.

Lucien does not seem at all perturbed. "Modernity is overrated. If you really want to do this, you must be ready to give something too. You must let me have a taste."

"I thought you said witches' blood doesn't suit you."

"It doesn't…" Lucien trails off silkily, raising his hand and gently pulling back her hair from her shoulder. His knuckles run down the side of her neck. "But you do."

Bonnie feels a thick knot in the middle of her throat and she finds she can't speak.

"Now, tilt back that pretty head of yours…"

Suddenly, she hears Klaus roar, a wolf-like sound that makes her heart start.

"Don't – touch – her!" he screams as blades plunge deep into his back. "This is between you and me, Lucien!"

Bonnie feels shaken. What little control she exerted over the situation is quickly dwindling. She has the instinct to pull away from the vampire and run to the cage and – do what? _Free_ Klaus? Free the beast that terrorized her for so long? No, there's no going back now.

"Ignore the fool, Bonnie," Lucien speaks against her ear. "Focus on me and me alone. Show me where Nik used to feed."

Bonnie looks over her shoulder and finally meets the hybrid's gaze directly.

 _He never fed on me._

She stares at him because his hateful eyes provide an anchor in the sea.

"Here," she points to the place right under her jaw, where Klaus never got to touch her. Lucien grips her waist and pulls her to him.

"NO!" the hybrid screams, gnashing his teeth and beating his bloody fists against the cage. "I WILL KILL YOU FOR THIS. I WILL TEAR YOU IN HALF WITH MY OWN HANDS."

Lucien laughs, his lips poised against the vein in her throat which throbs and waits to be opened. One hand reaches to the back of her neck, rendering her perfectly still for his pleasure.

Bonnie keeps her eyes trained on Klaus as Lucien's fangs hatch and sink into her skin. It hurts more than she thought it would. It starts with a small prickle which grows into a thorn, which grows into a blade as sharp as the one tearing the hybrid in his cage. The last time she was fed on, Emily was possessing her body. She did not feel anything like this. Now everything is stretched thin and her whole body is wracked with the desire to come undone into this stranger's mouth. Maybe then the pain would be lessened. It's a sickening push and pull; she wants nothing more than to be that mysterious hole which offers sustenance, but she also wants to be the one to drink from it. Strange, she never thought being fed on would make her want to _feed_. She wants to take Lucien's head and sink her own teeth in him.

But she has no teeth. Not like that. If she did, she would pull them out, she would break her mouth.

She looks at Klaus, clings to his eyes, and lets the blood flow freely. She thinks she hears him shout her name. The hybrid howls and beats against his cage, and the more he does, the more blood flows. They both bleed.

 _Why did you never feed on me?_

When it's done, she hardly remembers how much time has passed. She sways in Lucien's arms for a moment. He tips her chin up.

"Don't tell me that little sip upset you, darling. I'm sure I was much gentler than Nik."

Bonnie jerks away from him and presses a hand to her neck. Her magic is already healing the wound, but it's not fast enough and she still feels the sting, the _absence_ almost, of his mouth.

"Here," he offers, holding out his wrist.

" _No_. The spell requires for you to take my blood, not the other way around."

Lucien frowns, cocking his head to the side. "I only want to make you comfortable, but have it your way."

Bonnie feels anything but comfortable, yet she hardly wants to advertise her current unease. She folds her arms stiffly. "So, do we proceed with the next step or are we going to stand here all night?"

Lucien wipes his mouth with his thumb and licks the remaining drops of blood. "I thought we might do the spell here. Easier to kill him after we're done."

Bonnie flinches at the offhand way in which he mentions murder. It's righteous murder, the kind that the gods do not condemn, but all the same, Klaus is his _maker_. Shouldn't he feel even a small twinge?

The hybrid is clinging to the bars of his cage, his head bent low, the pain of regeneration too taxing for any response. Bonnie inhales sharply. "How are you going to kill him? Ordinary stakes don't work. We've tried."

"Ah, _that_. That should be the least of your concerns, Bonnie. I've got just the wood for him. A very special kind. He'll be snuffed like a candle."

Klaus lifts his head a fraction and glares at his sired vampire with a hatred that would make the bravest shrink in their boots. But Lucien only smiles.

"I don't doubt your ability to kill, but I don't want to do it here," she objects, stepping away from the cage.

Lucien narrows his eyes. "I _dearly_ hope you're not having second thoughts."

She shakes her head, rejecting the notion, rejecting the idea that a savior, a _hero_ , can possibly waver. This is what she has been planning to do ever since she heard the name, Klaus Mikaelson. And when he took her from her home and brought her to this wasteland, she vowed to finish him for good. This is going to be the crowning of her efforts. But still.

"I only think," she begins, coming closer to the vampire, "that he deserves a proper send-off."

Lucien raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "What do you have in mind?"

"I want to burn him and cast him into the sea. Just like he did to all the witches before me."

Lucien's eyes light up with delight. "The poetry is irresistible. Nik has met his doom indeed."

He turns to the dark columns that surround the courtyard and whistles softly. The tune is familiar. It sounds like a lullaby, a lullaby she's heard before…

Tiny feet patter on the stone floor. Their laughter rings like shattered glass.

The children come from the shadows, as if they were birthed from them.

Their eyes are red and their bodies are white. Their angelic faces are marred with hunger. She can see the shrewd glint in their eyes; the animals measuring prey.

They look neither young, nor old, only marked with the solitude of beasts who do not know that time exists.

Her voice falters. "You said…you said you don't keep any newborns here."

"I don't," he replies matter-of-factly. "These little ones are almost as old as me. They were made a long time ago."

Lucien turns to his little armada. "There's been a change in scenery, angels. Remove the convict and take him down to the sea shore."

A swarm of children falls upon the cage, surrounding it from all sides. The hybrid's screams pierce the long night.

* * *

The castle stands behind them like a grim odalisque, a giantess made of stone, her body draped across the shore, her towers pointing up like claws. Bonnie feels very small standing at her feet. The children look even smaller. They are gathered on the promenade, watching the ceremony below.

Bonnie walks barefoot on the cold sand. The shells dig into her soles. The wind lifts her sweater and pushes back her hair. But the sea is perfectly calm. The waves whisper against the sand, but do not rise to meet her toes.

She holds the parchment tightly in her hands and she chants words which would enfeeble those who are not witches. They're not called forbidden words for nothing.

The cage stands on a raised mound and tendrils of blood pour down from it into the sea. The hybrid is defeated, almost collapsed. His skin looks white with desiccation, but the blades fall on him mercilessly. His eyes still fight to meet hers, but she is turned away from him.

Lucien has filled two goblets of Klaus' blood and set them on the table before him.

"Well, is the line ready to be severed?" he calls to her cheerfully. He thinks this is a game. Bonnie glances over her shoulder.

"It will be ready when it's ready."

"I would have brought my violin if I knew it would take so long," he mutters under his breath.

Bonnie throws him a sharp look.

"All right, no violin," Lucien concedes, lifting up his palms.

She wishes she could burn that blasted instrument, but that's not why she's here tonight.

She looks up at the promenade. The children are huddled there, with their heads resting on the stone parapet. Their lives have never begun, and they never will. They are instruments of darkness, snatched from their mothers' breasts for bloodshed. For the first time in her life, she knows she can't save something. She knows she can't save them. Just like she couldn't save the little girl who was cast by her mother into the canal. She remembers Klaus' eyes turning a deep amber as he fed on her innocent frame. And the child died, and her eyes were never red, her skin never alabaster white, her heart never blackened by hunger. A better fate?

No, there _is_ no better fate. For any of them. If Lucien was capable of making this little army, he is as rotten as Klaus.

 _The devil you know…_

There are two ways of gathering the power of one hundred witches. There is the way of the light, where you summon the spirits and offer them your pure soul and tell them your mission is _hard_ , but not impossible, and with their help, balance may be restored to earth. This is the path she walked when she tried to kill Klaus.

Then there is the way of the dark, of _seizing_ the power of the spirits for a mission that is gruesome and which will rend the earth's axis in half.

The second way is taboo. Any sane witch will repel it. Grimoires speak of it in whispers, never fully touching upon its method, although it is crystal clear for any mortal that this is the point of no return.

For dark magic to be born, you only need to take a soul.

She has always vowed she will never touch this kind of magic. But there is no time. The spirits cannot hear her on this island of the dead. And these children who have been cursed into malevolent servitude… their souls can serve no higher purpose.

She stares at them and imprints their tiny faces on her retina, never to forget them.

She whispers to them. "Forgive me." She hopes they can hear her.

Their little heads fall one by one, asleep. They are snatched from life again, never to wake up.

She closes her eyes as she feels tears smarting in her eyes.

"Are you all right, darling?" Lucien asks, walking towards her.

Bonnie crumples the piece of parchment in her hands. "I don't need this anymore. The spell is ready."

"Ah, excellent. Here, let me pour the blood," he says obligingly, taking the goblets and emptying them on the table.

The drops of blood split into a myriad of glimmering beads, and Lucien bends forward to watch them with relish. "The sire line is ending."

Bonnie inhales sharply. "Yes. And it starts with you."

His gaze lifts in confusion. There is a fraction of a second, in which he realizes that Bonnie has changed her mind, but it's too late to do anything.

The veins under her skin have turned black with magic and her eyes have no white in them.

Bonnie prays to the ancestors that she will return from this…and she opens the gates inside her.

Lucien is thrown on his back in the sand, a cadaver in the making. His body is ravaged from head to toe by an invisible hand that breaks his bones. The blood inside him seems to _boil_.

"AAH! STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"

"It's your fault," she says, stepping forward. "You drank my blood."

The bond between them makes the magic even stronger. The souls she's drunk, the souls of the undead children, pour into him and make his limbs come apart. His body cannot contain the multitudes. His jaw dislodge from his mouth. His legs bend at a grotesque angle, his neck snaps like a twig, his eyes burst from his sockets. He howls in pain and misery.

"WHY?" he cries one last time, as his throat closes up.

Bonnie feels her mouth fill up with vinegar. She never wanted to make this choice. She _never_ wanted this. But it's never about what you want. It's about what you need.

"Because Klaus never fed on me."

The last wave of dark magic hurries out of her like a shooting star. The gale flattens everything to the ground. It breaks the hybrid's cage apart, it splinters the marble, it turns the sand into a gaping mouth.

Lucien's body disintegrates before her eyes. A rain of blood, warm and thick, falls down on her, until she is covered in crimson.

Her face is coated in blood. It makes her eyes water. She licks her lips. The taste is tangy and metallic.

She has sunk her teeth in him, just like he did to her.

She stands on the shore, a hollowed-out vessel of dark magic, her hands trembling with her sin.

Klaus staggers towards her, bleeding but alive. He looks like a man returned from the dead. His face is ashen, but his eyes are mad, almost euphoric. There is still one spear stuck in his back. He removes it swiftly and throws it in the sand. He looks down at Lucien's remains.

Bonnie follows his eyes and searches his face anxiously. Her voice cracks.

"I'm sorry I killed your first-born."

The hybrid stares at her in awe. He feels shocked, but not by her power. He has seen what she can do, has felt it on his own skin. No, what shocks him is that, after a carnage such as this, she can still stand there and be _Bonnie_.

Nothing can break the softness of her voice, not even dark magic.

He grabs the side of her face and parts her lips. What she fears about Klaus, what she _likes_ about Klaus, is that she never feels the pauses. She never feels the absence. He is always there, waiting for her to fall.

She falls.

He kisses the blood of his offspring from her lips, and he opens her mouth and swallows the dark magic too. Unafraid, unrepentant. He does it quickly, like a famished pilgrim that has reached the promised land and must devour all its relics. He grasps her body and lifts it up like a shrine, and Bonnie finds that she cannot think or feel anything but him, so she wraps her legs around his waist and lets him lead. He carries them both to the sea, while his mouth kisses and soothes the skin of her neck and the wound that Lucien left in his wake. She grips his head as his tongue trails fire across her collarbone and his hands fist into her sweater.

They both collapse in the water, but they don't let go.

The sea washes the blood, as their bodies stay entwined and his lips chase her lips, and his hands reach under her sweater. It's as if they never left the yacht.

And yet, everything is changed.

But their mouths part, against their will. They hear shrill sounds in the distance. Bonnie looks up at the castle.

She did not manage to snuff all the souls. Many of them are still left, and many of them are coming for them. The children are gathering, like a dark wave, to swallow them whole.

Klaus rubs a thumb against her cheek. "Let's not do things by halves, love."

Bonnie clings to him as the seaweed wraps around them. "I can't finish them all."

His mouth curls into a wolfish grin and she is almost relieved to see it again.

"That is why you have me."


	9. Chapter 9

_A/N: sooo, how can I top the previous chapter, you say? (srsly, thank you for your reviews and support, the trash exists solely for your thirst)_

* * *

 **Chapter 9: untouched as the morning dew**

* * *

Killing children was never a sport she wanted to excel at, but there are many things she never thought she would do. In this lifetime or the next.

Their impish faces are animalic, of course, as they are stripped of the familiar spark of a human conscience. There is no light home; their skulls are dark and empty. But there is in their movements and in their very limbs a terrible sadness. A bright future cut short.

She tries to give them the sleep of death, nothing more, nothing less. No violence, no blood. But even as she tries to rob them of their breath, they struggle and claw at each other, a broiling sea of children, screaming and seething and tearing each other apart.

Klaus does not waste time watching their ghastly performance. He runs through them like a scythe, and Bonnie can see their tiny limbs coming apart at the seams.

He is an arrow of destruction.

She touches the side of her neck where his teeth recently lingered.

Klaus Mikaelson finally had a drink of her.

* * *

 _They are crawling out of the sea together as the children draw near. Bonnie looks at his shaking form._

" _You're weakened."_

" _I can take on a few squalling brats," he intones haughtily, splashing at the waves. Despite his protests, she can sense the weariness in his bones._

" _They're not just a few. And they're old vampires. Do we even have a way off this island?"_

 _Klaus gathers her close to him, and Bonnie can feel the gentle breeze turning her skin into goose bumps. Her lips are still raw from kissing._

" _I'll find a way. We've come too far to lose."_

 _ **Lose what?**_ _she wonders, her heart beating wildly._

" _You're too weak. You need blood," she says, and the solution dawns on her in the same moment. He needs_ _ **her**_ _blood._

" _I only need for you to be safe," he says gruffly, in that matter-of-fact way of his. Cheap sentimentality does not factor in. His hands are enclosed around her shoulders and he squeezes once for reassurance. She never thought Klaus Mikaelson could give her reassurance._

" _I'll be safe if you're strong enough. Do it."_ _She doesn't need to elaborate. His eyes betray him as they latch, unrestrained, on the swoop of her sea-beaded neck._

" _Please. Just do it. We don't have much time."_

 _Klaus seems to debate the matter with himself. He looks unhappy. "I was hoping for different circumstances when I finally got to taste you."_

 _She raises a trembling hand to his jaw and lets her fingers dwell there._

" _I'm still mad at you. But the circumstances are never right. Klaus. Please."_

 _His own hand gently tips her chin back and his fingers run a warm trail along the side of her neck. His knuckles chart the map of her veins. His eyes have turned the color of leaves in autumn and their hunger is matched only by their desire._

 _She has never taken the time to observe the way a vampire - well, hybrid – takes his meal. She's never liked the way the face changes into a grimace, into an instinct that seems to erase identity. But something about his transformation rings honest. Something about it states clearly that it is he, not someone else, who is drinking from her._ _ **This is who I am. This is what I want. Your blood. And you. There is no blood without you.**_

 _She closes her eyes and hopes it will be painless. Although, deep down she doesn't want it to be._

 _He starts with a kiss. He kisses the skin he is about to break, once, twice…many times, butterfly kisses with a sharp edge, preparing her…but they don't have time… She can hear the little demons making their way to the shore…_

 _He tastes her skin with his tongue, drawing wide circles that become endless spirals._

" _Faster," she says, her voice only a short breath. She is gripping his back for dear life._

 _When the teeth come, it feels like the first time this has ever happened. Because the other vampires who have done this to her in the past wanted to punish her._

 _This feels like a horrible blessing._

 _His grip tightens once his fangs sink in. He latches onto her like an anchor to the ground. His fingers almost break her jaw, one of his thumbs pressing so hard against her lips she feels the taste of blood. And his head is lowered in prayer, his mouth open, drinking her fast and slow and slow and fast, alternating between sips and gulps, between consuming her and enjoying her…_

 _His tongue and teeth and lips create a strange whorl of sensations. The point of entry is just flesh and blood and it_ _ **hurts**_ _. It is a selfish act, drinking someone's livelihood. But it feels like he is giving her something instead._

 _When it is over, he holds her for a moment to his chest, while his mouth is red with her._

" _Go," she whispers. "I'll heal myself. Go. Take care of them."_

 _ **Take care of them.**_

 _She feels so cruel. But she knows he is an efficient monster, an excellent hunter. And in this moment, she wants to live._

* * *

Bonnie hurls a wave of magic at the tiny corpses scattered on the shore. She doesn't want to touch them. Does not want the soles of her feet to step on their tiny hands.

A new flock of children is pouring out of the castle but their number is waning. She can see their exhaustion, inhuman as it is.

She can also see Klaus running in the distance, faster than a bolt of lightning, faster than her breath.

"I found a boat," he has time to say before he picks her up and speeds with her across the waves. Bonnie's feet don't touch the water. She holds onto him. When she looks over his shoulder, she can see the children kicking sand and blood in each other's faces, struggling to catch them.

Bonnie still feels the dark magic swirling at her fingers, but she tries to use her old-fashioned strain. It's not strong enough. She should not reach into the darkness again. There's been enough of that for one night.

Klaus suddenly whispers in her ear as they race across the waves. "Do it."

And she does.

* * *

She leans on the stern and catches glimpses of the towers fading into the mist. The motorboat whirs and hums, and its ugly sound coaxes her finally to sleep.

As Klaus watches over her.

* * *

She wakes up to flies. Two of them, circling the small dingy mattress she is lying on. Their iridescent wings capture the sunlight filtering through boarded windows. The room smells sour and the heat is thick, like a blanket, but she thinks there must be a good reason why the windows are sealed.

She is tired of waking up in strange beds. But the fact that this one is far from luxurious gives her some comfort. Her clothes are so ragged and worn she wants to cast them off completely.

She rises gently, feeling as rested as she's ever felt.

There is a chair next to the small bed and on it, a modest sundress is laid out, yellow and simple, with white flowers stitched into the hem. Next to it there is a coarse white shawl. It resembles a starched table-cloth, the kind she might see in church.

She steps into a grimy closet where she only finds one operable sink. She doesn't complain. She splashes copious amounts of water on her face and under her arms. She seems to be going through some pre-recorded motions. She should wonder where she is, but there is too much relief in her bones to question further.

Her face looks the same. She would have expected for her features to be different after what her body has felt and done. But nothing is amiss. Even her neck is smooth. No trace of his teeth. But there is the ghost of them there, even if she can't see it. She doesn't _have_ to. She quivers slightly when she thinks that she has now joined the ranks of his witches. She has been drunk from and she has drunk. She gurgles the tepid water and spits.

She returns to the room and slips on the yellow dress. It doesn't fit her very well. Its previous wearer must have been two sizes bigger, because the dress hangs awkwardly down her shoulders. She covers herself with the shawl. She can feel the sweat pooling between her shoulder blades already.

When she steps out into the hallway, she is accosted by sound. A myriad of beckons and calls drifting up from the street below. Merchants and vendors and cab-drivers. There's plenty of other noise coming from the house too. The banging of pots and pans and knives. The walls are smoked with cooking and washing. The stairs are narrow and they squeak under her careful steps.

A few women are hovering over a large saucepan in the kitchen. Their faces are lined with age and sweat, but they are beautiful in the stifling heat. Their activity and buoyancy mesmerize her. Bonnie realizes she hasn't been around human beings in a while. The women each take a spoonful of sauce to taste.

One of them espies her by the doorway. She starts saying something loud in Italian, beckoning her with her hand.

"Piccola signora, vieni qui."

Bonnie realizes the woman wants her to taste the sauce too. She starts shaking her head, but one of them has already grabbed her by the arm and pulled her towards the stove. She smells garlic and basil and lime. Her mouth waters. She hasn't eaten in days.

They ask her questions in Italian, but she understands little of what they're saying, and even if she could make out the words, they speak so fast, it is a hard task to keep up. But she nods politely, wherever she can. They don't fail to notice the way her eyes linger longingly on the saucepan, and they seem satisfied that she is hungry, because this gives them something to do. They sit her down immediately and busy themselves with taking out casseroles from the ice box.

Bonnie wonders if they were compelled. It is rather funny to imagine Klaus taking his time to glamor them.

She finds out, through mouthfuls of bresaola, that their names are Francesca, Rosella, Liliana and Bertina. And they are nuns, or they _used_ to be nuns. She puts this together when they point to various crucifixes and prayer books they have perched on strategic places around the kitchen.

Now, their work seems to involve charity. They have left the convent to do God's work. This she understands by the photo albums they suddenly pull out of a drawer. Bonnie stares at the pictures with polite interest. In one of the photos she sees a house – probably the one she's currently occupying – with its doors open and its small garden filled up with women and children, all carrying bowls of soup and strained, but happy smiles.

Bonnie's finger lingers on the plump cheeks of a little girl, whose chin is drenched in red sauce.

She shudders and looks away for a moment too long.

The eldest one of them starts to speak. She remembers her name is Bertina. Bonnie nods half-heartedly, trying to smile, but then Bertina mentions " _Nicholas_ " in between rapid Italian, and Bonnie looks up, suddenly alert.

"Where…donde…Nicholas?"

" _Dove_?" the woman corrects. "Egli verrà stasera. To- _night_."

Bonnie stuffs more bresaola into her mouth. Klaus has left her with nuns. She remembers waking up in the castle and wondering if he had brought them to a convent. That seems like a long time ago.

These women – these good, wholesome, radiant women – do they know anything about him? What he is?

Would they be horrified if they knew?

What about her? Would they throw her out if they knew the sins she had committed with the very fingers which now break the loaf of bread in half?

And then she laughs. A sudden, ludicrous laugh. It's a funny joke. It's riotous.

The women smile uneasily.

Bonnie tries to stop but she can't. She's staring at the silver crucifixes pinned against the wall, and she thinks about the way Lucien burst into bloody fragments and the way Klaus picked her up and carried her into the sea.

He's left her with nuns. To repent.

* * *

He returns to the house in the evening to find her reading a prayer book. She is sitting in the parlor, underneath a large print of _The Adoration of the Virgin Mary._ The stiff shawl has slipped down her arms and the yellow sundress is far too big for her small frame as it pools around her knees. She looks very young and yet grown in ways that make his entire being ache. Because her age is such a small number, yet her power and everything she represents has been steeped into history. The idea of Bonnie Bennett is very old.

And why is she reading that prayer book? Why is her brow so drawn? What has she found there to render her face so serious?

He wants to see her smile. Just for him. Even though there might be nothing left to smile about.

He walks into the room.

She drops the small book in her lap and opens her mouth, as way of greeting, but finds nothing to say in the end. She settles for silence.

"Apologies for making you wait," he begins in a confident manner, to hide the strange flutter in his stomach. "I had to arrange our safe passage for tomorrow morning. I hope the Sisters kept you inside, like I told them to."

"They were very kind. Are we in hiding again?" she asks and her voice is dry and cool, unexpectedly cool.

"Of course. Word will have spread that Lucien has met an untimely end. _His_ legion of protégés is even larger than the Countess' ".

"What about _your_ legion? Don't you have _any_ protection?" Her tone is accusatory, although he cannot always tell with her. She hides her rage behind deceptive softness.

" _I_ am my protection," he replies tartly.

"It doesn't seem to be enough," she quips. "Seeing as we have to keep hiding."

He narrows his eyes. He senses she is trying to raise a wall between them. "Whatever friends and allies I have do _not_ look kindly on the murder of a kin. To them, I will have killed my own son. It is forbidden in our society."

"So, the killing of innocents is fine, as long as it's not in the family?" she drawls.

"That's the idea," he humors her.

" _I_ killed Lucien, not you," she states, without the shadow of a doubt. "Their problem is with me."

He can't help a small laugh. "And _that_ makes it my problem. I can't allow them to come after you."

He doesn't expect her to fall at his feet; the atmosphere is not exactly romantic, but he also doesn't expect her to slam the prayer book down and rise angrily from the chair. Her frame replaces the Virgin's behind her.

"I'm going to bed."

* * *

She hadn't expected he would stay away, and she's almost glad he's come into the room, because she has a reason to snap at him. She dearly wants to vent her anger.

"Correct me if I'm mistaken, but I sense some bad blood between us," he rasps, as he closes the door behind him.

She hates how well he looks even after several nights of torment and torture. She hates how he can wear pristine black in this humid weather and still appear untouchable. She hates immortality and its irredeemable beauty.

"Bad blood doesn't cover half of it," she mutters, walking towards the boarded window, wishing she could snap the wood out of place and sink it into his heart.

No… she doesn't _really_ wish this. But she feels a strange hunger, a hunger for violence.

Klaus takes a step towards her. "Have we not been through hell and back, you and I?"

She scoffs. " _I_ 've been through hell. You just sat back and watched."

"Unbelievable," he mocks, nostrils flaring. "I have treated you better than _any_ witch in my possession."

"You took me to all the right destinations! You let me drink vampire blood! You did almost everything short of draining me and casting me off to sea! Lucien told me how you used to burn them!"

She is aware she is shouting now, and possibly waking up the entire household. But she can't hold it in.

"You let all those witches die! All those women whose only fault was magic! And now you tell me you treated me _better_?"

"Then why did you willingly save this awful tyrant who's made your life so miserable?" he retorts, eyes spitting fire.

Bonnie lifts up her chin. "Why did you take the blame for killing the Countess?"

"Don't avoid my question."

"Don't avoid mine!" she cries back.

Klaus looks away with a bitter smile. "You also kissed me. And you gave me access to your blood. How shall I interpret those actions?"

"It was the dark magic. It made me do things I wouldn't normally do," she argues, pulling the shawl tighter around her body.

She's surprised to see that Klaus does not have a witty retort at hand. In fact, his face is a perfect bloodless mask. He looks dead serious.

"Well, I don't have such a convenient excuse. I kissed you and drank from you because I wanted to. I've always wanted witches. I kissed them and drank from them every day for centuries. It was… a way of living."

She tries not to look hurt by his succinct description. She's made of stronger stuff than that. She won't fall to pieces because she's been proven right.

"Good, then," she says, arching her back. "We have that settled. It was just a momentary rush. And - and a habit for you. Now we can get back to hating each other."

Klaus blinks. "Hate you? Yes, I suppose I do."

Bonnie grits her teeth. "The feeling is mutual."

"I hate you," he repeats, almost tasting the words. "I hate you more than any witch I have ever known. I hate that no one will ever call you a murderer. And your soul will never be tainted by the blood you've shed. I hate that you can summon the darkest magic from your breast but afterwards you can sit there and be just as lovely and untouched as the morning dew. I _loathe_ that quality about you. Because I will never possess such agility, such chameleonic talent. To be so good and so monstrous in one fell swoop. To kill a man with bare hands and then be washed clean by the sea. I will never feel that. No…I _did_ feel that, once. Last night, when I carried you into the water. I felt that you carried me with you. When I tasted your blood, I tasted that deliverance."

He stops because he has said too much and the words feel heavy and foolish in his mouth. But he has to say one more thing.

"You were never in my possession, Bonnie Bennett. Rather, you've always possessed me."

Bonnie stares, stone-faced, unable to respond. Her lips are parted and her chest heaves with the effort to breathe. She is gripped by anger and joy, both equally strong in her heart. She does not want to forgive him, she does not want to forget the witches who came before her, but she feels a horrible pleasure in knowing she has rendered him so weak.

In this moment, a word from her could break him.

"Get on the bed," she says suddenly, her voice abstract and detached from her own body.

"What –"

"I said get on the bed."

And it is a familiar refrain, which recalls his own brand of punishment. The same weighted command, the same inflexible tone. _On the bed._

This bed is smaller and uglier. There is nothing grand about this room, and yet she feels powerful in a way that is new and addictive.

He walks uncertainly to the edge and sits down, his eyes trained on her figure.

Bonnie flicks her hand and he lands on his back with a small thud, his body drawing a crater in the mattress.

She stands above him, a young witch in a dress too large for her body, in a world too big for her grasp, and she masters him completely just by looking down at him.

He stares at her like a man waiting for his sentence. A man whose deepest desire is to die by her hand, whichever way she may choose.

Another wave of magic unbuttons his shirt. His breath hitches in his throat.

"Bonnie."

"Who said you could talk?"

And before he can say or do anything else, her magic, so distant yet so warm, is tracing patterns on his bare chest and he closes his eyes, unable to do anything but wait.

She comes closer to the bed. She loves his weakness, she drinks it in hungrily.

She hasn't even touched him yet.

And then, she climbs on top of him. Clumsily, with the hem of her large dress getting in the way. Like a child climbing up her favorite apple tree.

She straddles him inexpertly, but her lack of adroitness only heightens the heady feeling in his blood. A cascade of curls tickles his stomach as she leans forward and takes in his muscles and joints, inspecting his body as if he were lying on the coroner's table. He can see the white flowers embroidered in the fabric of her dress, and those flowers seem to descend on him and grow roots in his skin. He has never felt more vulnerable and more desperate in his entire life.

His arms come up to grip her waist, but her magic pins them to the mattress.

"No."

That is the punishment. His claws are sharp and useless. He grits his teeth and lets his eyes fall shut. Having her, in all her glory, so close to him and being unable to touch her is worse torture than Lucien's toy cages. Her sweet fragrance, her steel innocence, her dark and undefiled soul, all here for the taking.

Her trembling fingers land on his chest. She can feel the wild beating of his heart under her palm. He opens his eyes.

"You're scared," she says softly.

"Always," he replies hoarsely.

And she realizes it is true. The hybrid is the most vulnerable creature in the world. A thing in between that must always fight for its right to exist. A thing whose ambivalence is coveted and despised. So in turn, he covets and despises.

Her hand caresses the firm muscles of his abdomen, tracing old scars, carved there before she was born, moving lower, exploring shyly but with iron determination.

He groans under her fingers, feeling as if a full moon has descended upon him.

"Bonnie…"

When her fingers latch onto the zipper of his jeans, he thinks he will gladly burn himself against her magic just to touch her.

His hardness is visible and aching and Bonnie stares at it in wonder. She has never had such urgency devoted to her.

She sinks her hand inside his jeans. Klaus jerks and shudders as she wraps her hand around his member.

There is a wooden crucifix nailed above the bed which reminds her of where she is and what she is doing.

Are Francesca and Rosella and Liliana and Bertina awake to hear this?

Bonnie rolls her wrist, letting her fingers grip his entire length, up and down, twice. She has never done this before, but she feels the knowledge is ingrained in her. She pumps him slowly, feeling the texture under her fingers, rubbing the tip with innocent curiosity. He is painfully stiff in her hand. His head is tilted back against the pillow, his breathing is harsh against his throat.

Her magic pins him, keeps him down, reducing him to a squirming wolf. His growls are feral, helpless.

She feels the seed already leaking out of him.

" _Bonnie_."

She smiles. "I say when you come."

* * *

 _To be continued next chapter, because I'm a cruel trash hoe._


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: so listen, this chapter was a rather erm, delicate experience for me, since I didn't know if my weird smut is "your" weird smut, if you get what I'm saying. I don't know if this will work for you, but I say give it a try. Bless the trash fam for the reviews and support, I hope you enjoy!_

* * *

 **Chapter 10: where one makes love to the snow**

* * *

He is supine, like a branch leveled by a strong gale.

She threads a web of magic around him, trapping him in her confines, like a spider and her fly.

She moves her fingers up and down his shaft with regular, lazy strokes, enjoying the coarseness of his skin, the ridges of his cock which, when caressed slowly, send shocks through his body.

The witch has no right to be this good at something so base. Perhaps she's not. Perhaps her movements would be clumsy if she were anyone else, if this were any other moment in time. But he can't find the strength to breathe when her smell and her touch invade him. The knowledge that her nimble fingers are trying to run him dry make his muscles clench painfully.

She rubs the tip again, fascinated by its ability to control the rest of him.

She admires his marble-sculpted chest, the physique of an Olympian who has toiled over a furnace. There are cracks inlaid in the stone by age and war. This mighty god who might've braved giants can do little but turn his head left and right.

"Bonnie, _please_."

She has never heard him beg, and the sound of it is enthralling. She wants him to plead. Not because she wants to humiliate him, but because when he is vulnerable, he becomes so much more supernatural.

He hisses under his breath as she makes a fist around his shaft and speeds up her ministrations.

He is leaking again, but she doesn't want him to come yet. That would put a pin in this delicate arrangement.

So, Bonnie Bennett, young virgin witch of Mystic Falls, lowers her head gently, curiously, and darts her tongue out, tasting salt.

The growl which issues from his throat is feral and electrifying in its clean-shaven despair. He lashes out in vain against her magic, but the strength of his anguish is enough to create a ripple in her web. Bonnie raises her eyes an inch. She does not look smug. She does not smirk. She is, after all, unaccustomed to these violent delights. Klaus stares back with a look that she might have misread as hatred many moons ago. But she's learned to read him better, and there is only shameless want on his face. Not desire or avarice, but a simple, atavistic want which is at the root of all life.

She wavers slightly under his fiery gaze, uncertain whether she can ever fulfill his need, but she lowers her mouth and takes him in her mouth, slowly, carefully.

Klaus cries out, dropping his head against the pillow, feeling the dark waters crash over him, taking him under by degrees.

"Holy _fuck_ ," he groans against the sheets, and Bonnie revels in his profanity, because he does not make a habit of cursing often. In fact, he avoids it when he can. She has noticed this about him; he is brutish and devil-may-care in many ways, but he's careful with his words. He doesn't have a natural knack for formality, like Elijah does, but he will not resign himself to vulgarity.

And so, when he emits a second quiet " _Fuck_ ", she takes him in deeper, choking a little on his length and bathing him in her hot saliva.

"Gods be bloody damned, witch!" he howls craning his neck in time to see her mouth bobbing up and down his cock, while her fingers cradle his length, and he falls back down and slams his empty fists against the bed.

The feeling is suffocation, for both parties. She can't breathe, she almost feels like gagging, but she wants to swallow everything he has to offer. It's like a fever has taken over, and even if she wanted to stop, she couldn't.

Klaus is whispering a litany of curses, one more colorful than the next, and his body is arched so painfully against her web that his flesh opens up in ruby-red slashes. His mouth is opened, his teeth exposed, like a wolf being hunted down.

Bonnie is mesmerized by his transformation. She leans forward and folds her lips against one of his cuts, shyly licking at the blood.

"Oh fucking – _hell_ – Bonnie –" Klaus gasps, unable to utter any more.

His blood tastes oddly sweet. Like pomegranate seeds. It terrifies her.

For a forgetful moment, Bonnie eases her hold on him.

He is vigilant even in the throes of pleasure. He's managed to pry one hand through her web of magic and he sinks it clumsily in her hair, tugging at it desperately, urging her on, holding the locks like an anchor.

She has never felt someone's fingers in her hair quite so deeply, and this gesture is somehow more intimate than taking him in her mouth. She feels his calloused thumb digging a jagged line against her scalp and she shudders around him.

"Come…up…here…" he begs feverishly, pulling on her curls with need.

Bonnie makes a low protest in the back of her throat; she doesn't want to release him now. She has acquired a taste for it, and she wants to explore him further, even if he shatters in her mouth.

Klaus growls in rage and wonder. She won't listen to him. His skin burns, but inside, he feels a chill, a kind of cold that strips him bare. He is reminded of freezing nights in the tundra, when he and a handful of courageous explorers undertook to find the Northwest Passage. They died, one by one, from starvation and sickness. The papers reported cases of cannibalism between crew members. But it was him alone and the warm blood and the moonlight bathing the North Pole in a blue halo.

Bonnie Bennett feels like a journey into icy fjords, where one loses a sense of time and purpose. Where one makes love to the snow. She is untouched snow, candy-like, between his teeth. And her tongue draws little whorls around his tip, because he is candy for her too. The forbidden sugar that her parents and her friends warned her against. She laps it up.

His moans become fragments of an ancient language. He is calling for her in Aramaic.

The words sound like gibberish to her, but there is a quality to them, like a river pouring down her back. She is bathed in history and she feels the names and faces and whispers of all the other witches run down her shoulder blades and pool at her feet.

Bonnie holds his cock to her mouth and her question ghosts over his flesh.

"What did you say?"

His every breath is a torment, but he stares at her, unwilling to give her the translation.

"Tell me what you said," she insists, gripping his cock until she elicits a hiss from him.

But no matter how much she wants to punish and control him, her need to understand is greater. She has always tried to understand her enemies.

"If this is what you want," he grits, and before she knows what is happening, he has managed to remove both arms from her web and is dragging her up towards him - the wolf about to fill his snout with snow.

Bonnie shrieks in surprise.

She doesn't want to let go of him, she wants to feel him come undone right _here_ and _now_ , if it's the last thing she'll do (he does not get to take this away from her), and she twists her body away from his arms, until she has her back to him and her hands latch greedily around his manhood.

But she has not taken precautions.

She feels a loud tear behind her.

His fingers, almost as sharp as claws, rip her dress into shreds and leave her exposed. He takes hold of her waist haphazardly, not even stopping to marvel at the softness of her skin or the honeyed fullness of her thighs. He is afraid, _always_ afraid, that the darkness will come, that she will be snatched away from him, that she will turn and run from this bed. So he seizes her, without thinking of the marks he might leave there, and he positions her hips above his head.

Bonnie exhales violently as his mouth ascends to heavens. Under different circumstances, he might have teased her, like he did many moons ago, but now there is a drought in his body, and this is the only spring. He grinds his teeth against her clit and pauses, latching his lips around the small nub and devouring it with little to no elegance. He is on the fjords, and there is no room for the illusion of civilization.

Bonnie cries out in anguish. Her body is frozen by the sudden onslaught of pleasure, and she flounders helplessly against his warm body, trying to find her footing and slipping, always slipping.

"Ooooh…."

His tongue plunges between her lips with no precision and no end in sight, because this is not just about pleasuring her, but rather drinking from her before the dream ends, before he is alone again. His mouth suspends and releases a heavy breath against her core, making her shake with spite and need, but he is not toying with her; he wants to remember this. He pauses because he is choked with hunger and the absence makes him yearn more. The absence makes it real.

Desperate lovers ache in short, fragmented gulps. He grazes her clit and then he folds back, only to taste once more.

The maddening rhythm of _touch – untouch – touch – untouch_ – propels her to reach for his cock and slip it hungrily into her mouth. She tastes her own saliva and his pre-cum, a heady combination, as his fingers dig deeper into the flesh of her thighs.

" _Aaahhh_ ," she mewls and it sounds like glass shattering against the wall. At first she doesn't notice the pain, mixed like a mongrel with the pleasure. But slowly, she feels the warm blood trickling down her leg.

"K-Klaus! Oh God, _Klaus_ –"

He tears into her sensitive flesh with no regard for her innocence, sharp fangs leaving mean punctures along her lip, as his tongue laps at her clit faster and faster and faster –

("Klaus, please, please, _please_ –" she rants as blood gushes out of her in waves)

\- until she can feel herself slip entirely through her bloodstream and she sucks on the tip of his cock without shame, feeling at that moment like a murderer. She has murdered herself in her own blood.

Klaus moans against her cunt and sinks his fangs deeper, taking her further away from solid land. Bonnie grips his cock painfully and runs her fingers down his length in ungainly jerks, coating him over and over in her spit until he is too stiff to touch and –

"Gods – _fuck_!" he cries out as her mouth blooms with his cum and his mouth blooms with her blood. Bonnie lets the salt run down her lips and feels a quake in her bones, a chill that severs her body from the waist down.

"I'm gonna – I – _please_ – aaah!" she screams as his thumb works over her clit and his nostrils fill up with her blood, over and over again.

A fine layer of snow covers them both.

The room spins for several precious moments and then it stands very still.

Bonnie slams her head against his stomach, exhausted.

Klaus presses a blood-spattered kiss to the inside of her thigh.

They both look like a funeral.

"What were you saying?" she asks hoarsely. "Before…what language was that?"

Klaus looks up at the ceiling. Drops of blood are still falling on his eyelids.

"Nothing…" he replies without voice. "I was only praying."

Bonnie feels like choking on laughter. She looks up at the crucifix nailed above the bed. It has not wavered.


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: a new chapter so soon? that's because I'd written a good chunk of this one already but decided to give you the smut as a separate treat, cuz well, I think we all needed that (wink wink). So, this chapter is a liiiittle bit on the snobby side, but I hope you'll like it. You should pull up Botticelli's Primavera while you read. At one point it'll become important and you'll want to look at the painting to visualize the scene (trust me). Also can I just say this trash fam writes the funniest reviews ever? Last chapters' comments were A plus plus. Hopefully you'll dig this one too! Please lemme know._

 _(P.S. History/Classics majors don't hurt me, I'm only a noob)_

* * *

 **Chapter 11: her lips breathe spring roses**

* * *

Francesca, Rosella, Liliana and Bertina are all laughing at her.

She can hear it in their inflection when they call to each other, in the way they shuffle busily around the kitchen and the way they stir the spoons in the pots. They've each got a secret smile on their lips, but if you were to ask them what is so funny they'd only say "è una bella giornata" and while she does not understand what it means, she _knows_ it's not the real source of their mirth.

She can only eat her breakfast in shame and hazard a guess as to how much they heard of last night's …events. It's better to focus on this shame and cast it in the light of a social transgression; what she did was wrong because she is their guest, _not_ because Klaus Mikaelson is a treacherous enemy. No, if she allowed herself to think of the moral repercussions, she wouldn't manage to swallow another bite of the omelet.

One of the sisters – she thinks it could be Rosella, but she isn't sure – stops in front of her and tells her to open her palm.

Bonnie is too shy to do anything but comply, given the circumstances.

The woman drops a sprig in her palm which to Bonnie looks very much like clary sage. She's learned her herbs from her grandmother.

Rosella draws the cross over it three times and gives her a wide, luminous smile.

"Per buona fortuna," she says, beaming.

"For good luck?" Bonnie asks, remembering her Latin. "Good luck with what?"

Rosella points calmly at Bonnie's stomach, still smiling.

It's almost impressive how quickly her appetite vanishes. The color in her face vanishes as well. Bonnie almost chokes at the idea. What kind of tormented existence would that be, carrying his child?

She wishes she could clarify that nothing like that happened last night. But well, something did. Perhaps something worse.

"Ah, here you are."

For once, she is almost glad to see Klaus walking brusquely into the kitchen. He is wearing the same black funereal clothes as the day before. But she notices he wears them differently this morning, as if he were more comfortable in their hold. There's some victorious in his gait.

"We must be on our way in a short while," he announces, avoiding her eyes and turning instead to Francesca and talking rapidly to her in Italian. In a moment's notice, her and Liliana are at her side, dragging her upstairs.

"Wh-what's going on?" she asks, befuddled.

She does not understand their quick and cheerful dialogue, but she gathers from their movements that they are going to find her some traveling clothes.

The tattered remains of the sundress they graciously gave her are still pooled at the foot of the bed. Bonnie didn't have the heart or the courage to hide them. She wants to apologize for the mess, but she can't find the right words in English _or_ Italian, and her throat feels very dry, but the nuns take it all in stride and tell her to take off the bathrobe.

When she woke up that morning, feeling sticky and exhausted and hung over, she found the bathrobe hanging by the door. Klaus was gone. There was still the indent of his body on the sheet next to her. And an indent of his fingers on her cheek, where he had caressed her before she'd opened her eyes. She remembers falling asleep next to him, like children huddled close, their feet tangled innocently, his arms locked around her waist. His nose in the hollow of her spine.

When she climbs back down the stairs, she's wearing a modest brown dress that reaches to the floor and her head is covered by a green veil wrapped around her neck. The nuns also throw a dark blue cloak over her shoulders. Bonnie is already sweltering. But Klaus nods in appreciation.

"Good, it's going to be chilly underground."

" _Underground_?" she asks, nonplussed.

Bertina, the eldest, holds up a finger in response and beckons them to follow her further into the house.

Klaus gestures largely. "After you."

Bonnie gathers her cloak around her and walks before him.

She feels a strange tension in the air, as if the words unspoken weigh like pieces of lead between them. But whatever she might say at the moment would sound gauche. Foreign. They drank each other's fluids only hours ago. They've crossed several barriers that cannot be put up again.

The only thing left to do is to keep walking.

Bertina and her sisters open the cellar door with a loud creak. A corrugated metal staircase leads below into darkness. It's not complete darkness however. She can see a faint light in the distance, the outline of a tunnel.

Klaus is speaking in Italian again. He is thanking the sisters for their help, from what she can gather. They smile and wave him off, refusing his gratitude, but they crowd around Bonnie to give her a goodbye kiss each. Bonnie accepts their embraces, humbled but confused, wishing she knew the history between them and Klaus.

Francesca turns towards him and winks. For the first time, she speaks in English.

"You chose a beautiful wife, _Nicholas_."

Bonnie gapes in wordless horror. She shakes her head several times, but the sisters only laugh and usher them through the cellar door.

* * *

"I had to tell them you're my wife. Wouldn't have heard the end of it otherwise. Something about a man and a woman under the same roof. Human traditions, you understand."

Bonnie is still trying to find her footing in the dim and misty tunnel. She sees patches of light flickering somewhere the distance but she has no idea what their source could see. There is no opening in the masonry. The flagstones are slippery under her boots. She won't reach for his arm, though. She won't find comfort there, and she wants to keep a wide berth between them at the moment. She leans her hand against the damp stonework of the walls instead.

"You could have compelled them."

"No, actually. They drink vervain quite regularly."

"So, they know you are..."

"Not quite, but they are a cautious bunch. All sacerdotal creatures are. Still, they harbor some degree of naivete. They actually believe in the institution of marriage, so compromises had to be made."

She throws him a look. "You could have _told_ me. They think we're trying to have children."

Klaus chuckles under his breath, but he makes no further taunt, as if alluding to the previous night might break their temporary truce. Bonnie follows his example with perfect hypocrisy. As long as they don't talk about it, they can exile it into the hazy past. A past which has nothing to do with their present moment.

She wonders, though, if he remembers what he said. Actions melt easier than words.

 _Rather, you've always possessed me._

Is he embarrassed by his admission, does he wish he could take it back?

She dismisses these fruitless thoughts and looks ahead at the long path which dissolves into darkness. The tunnel seems endless.

"Where does this take us exactly? The sewers?" she asks, wrinkling her nose.

He scoffs. "As if I would ever suffer that indignity. No, these tunnels are distinct from the gutters. They are known by few, and frequented by even fewer. You will not find them on any maps of the city, but they stretch across Florence. And, dare I say, all of Tuscany. We will not be tracked here. Lucien's champions cannot find us."

 _Florence_. She realizes this is the first time he's told her where they are. She hasn't been out of the Sisters' house to see the city for herself, so she has to take his word for it.

"What _are_ they, then?" she presses, more curious than she'd care to admit. "Vampire escape routes?"

He smiles wryly. "Not quite, but you're not entirely wrong. They belong to the ancients. They are temples."

Bonnie blinks. "Temples?"

Her thumb hits upon something sharp in the stones and she withdraws her hand. She looks up at the vaults above their heads. They are lined with moss that has lost its brilliant green.

"The only remaining temples of the _flamines_ ," he elaborates with a flourish of his fingers.

"The flames?"

"The flamines," he corrects. "Flamen for singular. A college of Roman priests who each worshipped one of the fifteen deities of the Republic's canon."

Bonnie swipes the side of her cloak as they pass a shallow puddle on the ground.

"So this happened in Caesar's time?" she asks, feeling a little thrown by the information.

"Roughly, but Livy would say these colleges were formed much earlier. In any case, I'm sure you've heard of many of their gods. Mythology has become a popular pastime."

"My Grams taught me about Greek and Roman gods, but she never told me anything about these…priests."

"Probably because she was not versed in the religious structures of Republican and Imperial Rome. Witches do not bother with the unimaginative ways that the Romans used to worship. In any case, there were two types of flamines; major and minor. The major flamines dedicated themselves to the cults of Jupiter, Mars and the like. The _obvious_ ones. I prefer the minor flamines."

"Let me guess. This temple," she points, surveying their surroundings, "belongs to the minor priests."

"Glad you're keeping up," he quips with a small smile. "But it belongs to a particular flamen college. The Flamen Floralis."

Bonnie knits her eyebrows in confusion. " _Floralis_. I'm guessing it has something to do with flowers."

"Good. These flamines worship the goddess Flora."

Bonnie bites her lip. "So, you're telling me we are walking through an underground temple, dedicated to a Roman goddess?"

Klaus nods serenely. "Welcome to Florence."

Bonnie secures the cloak around her. A sudden chill sneaks through the layers of clothing and licks at her bones. Her magic is responding to her surroundings. This place is a relic. She can feel it now. She's felt it ever since she stepped foot on these stones, but she was distracted by thoughts of him and their journey.

She lets her web unravel. The temple is not older than her magic, but it is older than her closest ancestors. And yet she feels a strained connection between them, as if they are speaking in different tongues. She guides a magical signal shyly into the ancient masonry and feels a sting on her fingers, almost a reprimand.

Klaus notices her coy attempt. "You shouldn't bother. The priests and their gods were afraid of witches."

"What?"

"Why do you think the stones cut you before?" he asks wryly, but before she can form a reply, he points at the lights ahead of them.

"We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

The lights are stronger now. After a few more steps, she sees the first scones in the wall. Long wax candles flicker inside their fixtures and cast ring-shaped shadows at her feet.

Up ahead, the tunnel is broken in two paths, left and right. Klaus guides her towards the left.

* * *

"You must be in some kind of trouble, Niklaus. You hardly visit otherwise."

The priest does not look anything like a servant of the gods. He is dressed gaily in grey-white robes pinned with flowers and feathers and beads, and his beard is trimmed in whimsical shapes. He looks boyish, despite his seniority. He is wearing a pair of orange sneakers, a little moldy with age.

She gawks at him, unable to contain her surprise.

"It is not my fault you never come up for air, Nonus," Klaus replies easily, although his stance is alert and his eyes carefully scan the small crowd gathered in the refectory.

"The world above is hardly enticing. The sun hurts my eyes. I am much happier here."

"I can see that. Well, I'm afraid we are only passing by."

"I imagined. Who is your lovely companion?"

His cloudy eyes search over her curiously, glinting with suspicion.

"No one you need bother yourself with, old man."

"Ah, don't tell me you've finally shackled yourself to the enigmatic creature known as _mulier_."

Bonnie crosses her arms over her chest. "You should get out more often. You'll find we're not that strange."

Nonus' eyes sparkle with delight. "I meant no insult, my sweet lady. Forgive a frail old man."

"Not so frail," Klaus intercedes with a smirk. "I'm sure you're still capable of securing us passage out of Florence."

The old man laughs. "Don't tell me you've forgotten your way around these tunnels."

Klaus bites his tongue. "Forgotten, no. But I might stumble. I bow to your superior knowledge."

Nonus wags his finger at him. "Your tongue is a knife dipped in a pot of honey, Niklaus. Your friend here must be accustomed to it."

Bonnie feels a blush rise to the very roots of her affair. She turns her face away.

Klaus is hardly fazed. He looks him straight in the eye. "Should I worry that I no longer hold your interest, old man?"

Nonus sighs, patting his knees in a show of helplessness. "You will always hold my interest, you wicked daimon. Why, when we were both young and strong…"

His eyes are misted with a bittersweet memory, and Bonnie is almost shocked to see desire in his eyes. Klaus returns an inviting smile, indulging his nostalgia.

She is suddenly seized with images of the two of them, interlocked in a passionate -

"And yet, you've brought a witch in my den."

Klaus' smile fades in an instant.

"You think I did not sense her the minute she entered the temple?"

"Come now, old man," Klaus interjects warily. "You've always liked a novelty."

Nonus bites the inside of his cheek. "Indeed, but I do not like competition."

Bonnie frowns, sensing a dangerous strain in the conversation. "Competition? Are you a warlock then?"

Nonus laughs bitterly, spittle gathering at the corners of his red mouth. "She is young and innocent, this witch, isn't she? Come, let us show you what we do here, my dear."

"We do not have time for this," Klaus demurs with a frown.

"What, you don't visit me for decades, then you show up with a witch, and you expect not to humor me? I don't think so."

* * *

The candles are arranged in the shape of beehive, with a round space in the middle left void.

The priests are sitting cross-legged on the cold floor, waiting.

Nonus has brought her and Klaus into the "sanctum".

Ten flamines, women and men, sit in the first row. Nonus is the ninth.

Bonnie stares at the wall opposite the candles. There's something there, something her eyes gradually uncover. A painting. The yellow light bathes the canvas in a cadaverous glow. She recognizes the subject. She's seen its likeness in albums, on mugs and T-shirts.

"Is that…?"

"Botticelli's _Primavera,_ yes."

Klaus is standing next to her, surveying the scene with a practiced eye. Whatever is about to happen, he's witnessed it before.

"Is it a fake?"

"Oh, no. Quite the real thing," he assures her casually.

"That's – that's impossible. The original's supposed to be in a museum."

"Well, obviously it's not. The Uffizi Gallery have a very apt copy, I'll grant you."

"But how-?"

"You should be used to it by now, Bonnie. The world you lived in was a cameo, nothing more."

She bites down on her tongue. "My world may be only an illusion, but you sure spend a lot of time in it."

He stares at her for a moment too long, and their eyes begin to unfold the events of the previous night. The tastes and touches. The communion.

"Bonnie, I –"

She breaks the spell and looks forward again. "Why is the original here?"

He closes his mouth and turns to the painting. He waits several moments before he speaks again.

"Do you see the blue figure in the right corner?"

Bonnie squints, trying to make out the shape on the canvas. "The one between the branches? He's – he's trying to take one of the women."

"Yes. That's Zephyrus, the Greek god of the west wind. He is in the act of kidnapping the nymph Chloris. Do you see her mouth?"

Bonnie frowns. "Yes…There's something…coming out of it. It's…"

"Flowers," he finishes for her.

Bonnie wants to ask what all of this means, but the sanctum suddenly turns quiet as a young girl, no older than fourteen and dressed in starched white robes, steps away from the crowd.

She meanders gracefully between the candles until she stands in the center of the hive, with her back to the painting. The light turns her skin to bronze.

Everyone watches her in rapt silence as she starts swaying gently, as if guided by imaginary music.

It is Nonus who speaks, making Bonnie start.

"As she talks, her lips breathe spring roses."

The young girl smiles shyly and answers in a clear, crystalline voice, "I was Chloris, who am now called Flora."

The crowd repeats the chant in low whispers.

" _I was Chloris, who am now called Flora_."

"Ovid," Klaus whispers in her ear.

And then there is silence again, deeper and thicker than before. Bonnie finds herself mesmerized. Her heart beats hard against her rib cage.

The young girl sways faster now, raising her arms to the ceiling and arching her back, letting her head roll like a weightless orb. It is a strange, fragmented dance.

Her eyes stare up into the unknown as her body contorts and writhes to an unsung melody. A bare alabaster shoulder peeks through her robes.

Her head falls back like a feather and her mouth opens wide. Her throat pulses with a second heart.

Before Bonnie's eyes, a green vine pushes out of the girl's mouth, curving towards her round cheek. There is a small bud on the vine which opens slowly into red petals. Another bud spring out of her mouth, and another, turning into roses.

Just like in the painting behind her.

 _I was Chloris, who am now called Flora_.

Bonnie staggers on her feet. Klaus has placed a protective hand across her back. She clutches at his arm, frightened, but eager to know more.

The flamines all bow their heads to the stone floor.

"Is this magic?" she whispers hoarsely.

"No," he replies, pulling her closer. "This is benediction from the gods."

"But I don't understand," she says, as she watches the roses wind around the girl's throat and shoulders.

"The goddess Flora has descended upon her. She has given her blessing. That is what Nonus meant by competition. They need the gods to perform miracles. You do not."

Bonnie stares at him, breathless and frozen in time.

"Witches are the real gods. They are older than Zephyrus and Chloris, older than Jupiter and Saturn. Older than Time. They were here when the first light crept through solid dark," he speaks, as if reciting from an old story. "And they will be here when it's dark again."

His eyes are filled with a conviction she cannot deny.

Suddenly, his obsession, his addiction becomes clear.

He has hunted witches all his life, to be closer to eternal power. He is not fascinated with the supernatural. What he craves is the natural. The essence.

She watches the girl's mouth. How it blooms, and blooms, and blooms. And she remembers the night before.

"That's why you drank the witches until they were empty," she says, shivering in his arms.

Klaus nods and while he does not look remorseful, he neither looks proud. He is only a worshipper, trying to absorb the essence.

And she guesses, without knowing, that the prayer he spoke in Aramaic the night before was addressed to her. The real god.


End file.
